Surviving Desecration
by NeonicPoizon
Summary: Sherlock's choice to ignore Moriarty results in John getting hurt. John hides behind a plethora of lies, but the truth comes out eventually. When Sherlock is finally notified of what actually happened, there's no telling how will he react. And it's only a matter of time before John loses control... NON-CON
1. Introduction

**INTRODUCTION**

**Warnings: **

This story is rated R for its very dark theme. Possible trigger warning for those with traumatic past experiences.

Contains SLASH. Various homosexual relations contained within.

It is suggested that only person(s) of the age 18 or older should read beyond this point.

**Disclaimers:**

I do not own Sherlock, nor do I own any of the characters from Sherlock. I simply utilize them in order to bring entertainment to my readers. Please enjoy the story, but do not assume that I own anything other than the plot.


	2. Case Solved

It had been another infuriating argument, another door slammed shut. Profanities flew about, and then John opened the door and yelled down at Sherlock.

"You're a right git, you are!"

Sherlock ignored him, just continued making his way down the stairs while simultaneously struggling to get his coat on. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and looked up at the doctor, then opened his mouth as if to say something. John interrupted him before he even had the chance to utter out a single word.

"Don't you dare! You know full well what you've done, and I don't want to hear any of your bloody excuses!"

Sherlock closed his mouth and glared at him for a moment, then spun around and swung the front door open. He left without saying anything else, slamming the door hard enough that one of Mrs. Hudson's picture frames actually fell off of the wall. It smacked into the ground, and the glass shattered. The sudden ruckus startled Mrs. Hudson, who appeared in the foyer shortly after.

"What's he on about now?" She looked up and asked John ,a curious smile playing on her lips. John shook his head and cursed inwardly.

"It's nothing. Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson."

John gave her a grim smile, and then disappeared back into the flat without saying anything else. The old landlady stood there for a moment, and then looked down at the broken picture frame she now had to clean up thanks to the lovely young man who lived upstairs.

All well.

She let out a deep sigh and shook her head, grabbing her broom. Guess it couldn't be helped.

Sherlock made his way down Baker Street as fast as he could, hoping that John wouldn't follow him. He was fuming. The last thing he wanted was the doctor tailing alongside him, lecturing him on why it was inhumane to shoot cats with air soft guns. Especially cats that- irritatingly enough- had been adopted into the residence.

God damn John and his cat.

The last thing Sherlock wanted was a bloody cat in his home. It would scratch up furniture and piss all over the floor. Not only that, but it needed a litter box. A smelly, piss-filled litter box. Ugh. What a disgusting being the feline species was. Sherlock just couldn't understand why any human being in their right mind would actually want one as a pet.

Such vile creatures.

"Damn it all," He said to himself, rubbing his temple with his index finger. John's spiteful bantering had given him a headache. Now he'd have to go to the pharmacy and pick up some pain relief medication. Just what he wanted to do on a Monday morning; stop by a pharmacy and be forced into useless small talk with one of the cashiers while he bought a small bottle of pain reliever. Oh yes, it sounded just...delightful.

Sherlock's mobile rang and he groaned, assuming that it was John calling to say something callous about him running off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small cellular device, flipped it open, then put it up to his ear without even checking who it was.

"You better not be calling me just to-"

"It's Lestrade," Said a familiar male voice. The D.I. didn't sound very amused by Sherlock's attitude, but it was typical.

"Oh," Was all that Sherlock said in reply.

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in assisting me with my latest investigation," Lestrade said, as if he didn't already know the answer.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, "I'll need an address."

"I've already sent for a taxi. It should arrive within ten minutes."

"Right, then."

Sherlock flipped his mobile shut and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. Letting out a slightly agitated sigh, he turned around and began walking back the way he had come. It took him about five minutes to get back to the flat, and then he sat down on the front step and impatiently waited for his ride to arrive.

...

When Sherlock's taxi pulled up in front of the crime scene, Lestrade was waiting for him. He watched as the consulting detective stepped out of the vehicle, and then offered him a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee. Sherlock waved him off, continuing towards the house.

"By the way," Sherlock complained, "You're taxi was one and a half minutes late."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"It isn't an exact science, you know."

"Rubbish," Sherlock muttered to himself. He bent down and walked under the yellow police tape surrounding the perimeter, then began weaving his way through a crowd of police.

"Hey," Lestrade said as he followed him, "Where's Doctor Watson? Don't you two work together on everything nowadays?"

Sherlock glanced back at him, and then reached forward and pushed the door open.

"Gloves!" Lestrade yelled. Sherlock stopped in the doorway and looked back with a smirk.

"Why yes, Detective. I would advise you to wear gloves while inside. It would be a shame for you to tamper with evidence."

Lestrade frowned. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and offered them to Sherlock, demanding that he be careful inside. Sherlock waved them off incredulously.

"Do you think I'm an amateur?" Sherlock asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of his own latex gloves, putting them on as he carefully stepped into the residence.

"Also," Sherlock said, "To answer your earlier question: Doctor Watson couldn't make it."

"Why not? Is he feeling unwell?"

"He's adopted a stray feline about a week ago, and it's managed to lose an eye. He had to take it to the veterinarian."

Lestrade furrowed his brow as Sherlock leaned down to examine the body of a young boy sprawled out on the floor.

"How'd the animal lose an eye?" Lestrade asked. It was too late, though. Sherlock had already zoned out, and all of his focus was on the corpse in front of him. He was in his own world now; engulfed by evidence and deductive reasoning.

...And within the hour, he had the case solved.

"I've got it," Sherlock said as he bounded down the stairs forty minutes later. Lestrade just stared at him in disbelief. He hadn't even managed to find out how the boy had died, but Sherlock had already figured out how, who, and why.

"Well," Lestrade said, "What is it, then?"

Sherlock grinned triumphantly, pointing out all of the evidence.

"There's a large wound in the back of the head, so I presume that he was hit with a blunt object. I went upstairs to look around, and found this," Sherlock held up a small sports trophy mounted on a block of granite. Lestrade looked at it and crossed his arms.

"What's your point?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh and continued to explain.

"I swear, Lestrade, you're so... Look closely."

He held out the trophy for Lestrade to examine, and the D.I. Scrutinized it.

"I don't see any blood," He said.

"Not now," Sherlock said, "Because it's been cleaned. The granite reeks of bleach. it was cleaned. By the killer, no doubt, in an effort to hide her crime."

"Her?"

"The boy's girlfriend, obviously."

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and scrubbed the side of his face with his hand. He didn't see what was so obvious about it.

"How do you know?"

"It's a simple observation," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "That if you were to go into the boy's bedroom, you would find a book full of photographs. Within that is pictures of him and a female; His girlfriend. And, if you were to go through the text messages on his phone, you would find messages from the same girl."

"That doesn't mean she killed him!"

"It does when she's the one who got jealous and beat him to death with a sports trophy."

Lestrade gave him a blank stare, trying his best to figure out what in the world Sherlock was babbling on about. Sherlock could see that he was struggling to put the pieces together. 

"Who was it who discovered the boy's body?" Sherlock asked, slowly losing his patience. 

"Some friend." 

"And tell me, what gender was this..._friend_?" 

"Well, it was a girl, but..." Suddenly, everything clicked. A look of realization formed on Lestrade's face, and Sherlock grinned widely.

"He was cheating on her," Lestrade said, "And, judging by the messages and pictures, they were very close. Which means that she must have been devastated when she found out about the affair..."

"So she killed him. With this."

Sherlock held out the small trophy and Lestrade took it from him.

"And, if you look closely, "Sherlock continued, "You'll find that there was a fake nail in the victim's hair. It could easily belong to the girl who found him, but it's pink, and her nails are a dark shade of blue. I do believe, Lestrade, that if you examine the hands of our victim's girlfriend, you will find that she has a pink manicure, and one of the nails are missing."

Sherlock stopped talking and took in a deep breath, standing proudly as the D.I. took a moment to mull over everything in his head.

"Good job," Lestrade said, once again impressed by Sherlock's abilities.

Sherlock nodded his head and began to walk away.

"Do call if you have anything else you need. I would prefer, however, that you give me something a bit more challenging next time."

Sherlock made his way to the front door and stepped outside, running directly into another one of Lestrade's useless officers.

"Watch where you're going!" Sherlock barked.

"S-sorry, sir."

Sherlock looked at the officer curiously. It was odd for somebody to apologize to him. Most of the police hated him. Then again, this particular man didn't look familiar. In fact, Sherlock had never seen him before.

He must have been a new recruit.

"Do- Do you n-need something, sir?"

What an incredibly irksome speech impediment.

"No," Sherlock replied, "Just get away from me."

He studied the man for a moment, and then the man nodded complacently and walked away. Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly and dusted himself off.

"Hey!" Called a familiar voice from behind. He recognized it immediately and quickly started walking in the direction opposite of his pursuer.

"Hey, freak! Where you going?"

Sherlock let out a groan and reluctantly turned around to face Mike Anderson, his least favorite officer of them all.

"What do you want, Anderson?"

"What are you doing here? Isn't this case a bit too domestic for you?"

"Yes, Anderson, it is. In fact, I found myself severely disappointed by how easy it was to solve. Now, do you need something?"

"Where's your boyfriend?" Anderson asked.

"John's at home," Sherlock said, "And he isn't my boyfriend. What about you, Anderson? Is your big-mouthed little mistress with us this morning?"

Anderson's smirk melted into a frown, and Sherlock could tell that he had hit a nerve. A victorious smirk played on his lips as Anderson's face began to turn a dark shade of red.

"Wouldn't know who you're referring to," Anderson replied. He was trying to keep calm, but obviously wasn't doing very well at it.

"Oh, you know...The dark-haired tramp who's always barking at me for no good reason."

"Don't you call her that!" Anderson yelled, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock gently grabbed his wrist and flicked it away.

"Don't touch me!" Anderson spat. He jerked his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and glared at him.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, "I wouldn't have to if you wouldn't have touched me in the first place. I don't like it when intrusive idiots such as yourself invade my personal space."

Anderson stared at him for a moment, rubbing his wrist as if Sherlock had hurt him.

"You're a fruitcake."

"I thought that the term you lot used was sociopath."

"That, too."

"I might be. Or maybe you simply use the term to feel better about yourself because you're incapable of solving anything without me?"

"I'm smarter than you think."

"No," Sherlock corrected, "You're an imbecile. You truly are. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going home. Because I do believe that my IQ may actually drop if I continue to speak with you for any longer."

And with that, Sherlock spun around and walked away, leaving Anderson to fume on his own. The officer started spitting out profanities towards him, but he just blocked it out. He wasn't about to humiliate himself by further engaging in Anderson's childish rant; he'd done enough damage to the man's ego.

Now it was time to go home.


	3. Domesticated

When Sherlock arrived back at the flat, John was waiting for him. He was seated in his favorite chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. He looked quite irritated.

"Happy?" He asked. Before Sherlock could reply, he added: "You got what you wanted."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

"Cat's dead," John replied.

"What a shame," Sherlock sarcastically remarked. John opened his mouth to say something derogatory, but decided against it.

"Never mind," He muttered to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just...It's useless."

"How so?" Sherlock asked. John looked at him with an irritated expression plastered on his face.

"There's no point in arguing with you, Sherlock. You won't learn your lesson, anyway. Don't even know why I bother anymore."

Sherlock watched as the exasperated doctor cupped his face in his hands and sighed tiredly. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, and then stood up and let out a yawn.

"Did you not sleep well, John?"

The shorter man looked over at him and glared daggers.

"No, I didn't," He spat, "You kept me up all night playing that bloody instrument of yours!"

"Yes. Well, I couldn't think straight with that cat whining. I needed to drown out the wretched noise somehow."

"I hate you," John sardonically replied.

"No you don't." Sherlock said with a smug grin. John looked up at him and tried to remain angry, but Sherlock's expression made him smile. A light chuckle escaped the back of his throat, and Sherlock's grin widened victoriously.

"You're such an arrogant…"

"It's not arrogance, my dear Watson. It's deductive reasoning."

"Yeah, yeah..." John said, waving his hand in defeat. Sherlock grabbed his laptop and sat down on the sofa, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as he waited for his computer to turn on.

John walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, then shut it again and let out a sigh. He walked back into the living room, gave Sherlock a furtive glance, and then walked away, disappearing into his bedroom. He reappeared a few minutes later with his coat on.

"I'm going to get some milk," He said.

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly. John made his way downstairs and left, leaving him alone.

Once the doctor had made his way outside, he found himself attacked by cold air from every direction. He hugged himself to keep warm, but it was surprisingly much colder than he had imagined, and his coat wasn't very good at insulating him. Quickly, he ran to the edge of the sidewalk and waved down a taxi, jumping directly into the back seat as soon as one slowed to a stop in front of him. It was much warmer inside the vehicle, and John couldn't help but feel relieved.

"Bloody cold out there, ain't it?" Asked the driver. It was an elderly man with dark orange hair. He gave John a smile. John looked at the older man's reflection in the mirror and smiled politely, nodding his head.

"Well," The driver said, "Where to, then?"

"Straight to the grocer's from here," John replied. The driver nodded his head, and then drove off. A few minutes later, he stopped in front of a rather large marketplace, and John handed him the fare.

He winced as he stepped out of the car, meeting with the cold air once again. It felt as if the temperature had dropped another two degrees since he had left the flat.

He ran into the market and took a few moments to warm up, then grabbed a basket, retrieved the few items he had come for, and checked out. Once he was back outside, he regretted not asking his taxi to wait for him. It took a good ten minutes for him to wave another down, and he couldn't feel his face by the time that it came to a halt in front of him.

Quickly, he jumped into the back of the vehicle and rubbed his hands together until they were warm, smacking them against his cheeks.

"221b Baker Street," He stammered, his teeth chattering.

The driver started driving without reply. After ten minutes of traffic, he parked in front of John's address and waited for his payment. John handed him his fare and jumped out of the car, running inside and slamming the door behind him.

He leaned against the door and let out a deep sigh. He dropped his groceries next to him and clasped his hands together, breathing into them. Jesus, it was really cold outside.

Probably time for him to get a thicker coat.

John picked his groceries up and climbed upstairs, opening the door to find Sherlock still sitting on the sofa. He was staring incredulously at something on the screen of his computer, but John didn't bother asking. Knowing Sherlock, he probably didn't want to know.

"Got some eggs," John said as he walked into the kitchen. He put everything he had just bought into the refrigerator, and then threw the paper bag into the bin. When he reappeared in the living area, Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, staring intently at the screen of his computer.

"D'you hear me?" John said.

Sherlock waved him off.

"Not now, John."

John squinted his eyes at him and let out an unpleasant groan, but didn't retort. He'd had enough arguing with him for the day. He decided just to drop the subject altogether and make himself comfortable.

He put his coat back in his bedroom, and then walked into the kitchen and grabbed a kettle. He filled the kettle with water, turned the stovetop on, and then set the kettle down.

As he waited for the water to boil, he opened the refrigerator and grabbed the lettuce, a tomato, a few slices of turkey, and a slice of provolone cheese. He retrieved a loaf of bread and a small plate from the cupboard and put two slices of bread on the plate. He put the bread back, and then retrieved a knife from the top drawer in front of him. He used the knife to cut up his tomato, and then he put the cheese, turkey and tomato on his bread. He topped the sandwich with a few leaves of lettuce, and then put the remainder of his ingredients back into the refrigerator. His ears perked up as the sound of Sherlock typing caught his attention.

He looked into the other room for a split second, saw the distraught look on his friend's face, and suddenly felt very curious.

"What's the matter?" He asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock," John said, raising his voice just enough to catch Sherlock's attention.

"Not now," Sherlock said. John sighed. Whatever it was that was bothering Sherlock, the consulting detective either didn't want to explain at the moment, or he didn't want John to know about it.___Great._

As if they didn't constantly have enough to deal with.

"Right, then." John sighed. He dejectedly turned his attention back to the sandwich that he had made. Still, he couldn't get rid of the irksome curiosity scratching at the back of his mind. What was Sherlock being so secretive about?


	4. Hacked

Sherlock sat down and opened his computer on his lap, pressing the power button. He pulled his scarf from around his neck and laid it down next to him, but kept his coat on. It was a bit chilly in the room, and he wasn't in the mood of putting effort into taking his coat off and hanging it up, anyway.

John walked into the kitchen, and then came out and disappeared into his bedroom. Sherlock wasn't paying much attention, but he was pretty sure that John had given him an angry look as he passed by.

The computer screen lit up, asking for a password. Sherlock typed in eight digits and pressed the enter key. The word ___welcome_ appeared on the screen, and he waited patiently as the computer loaded his desktop.

John said something, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He decided to nod his head in accordance with whatever the man had said just to make him happy. It seemed to work, because John didn't say anything else.

Sherlock clicked the small internet icon on his desktop, and then typed the details of his latest case into the search engine that popped up. A news article appeared, and Sherlock read the headline out loud to himself:

"Girl Kills Boyfriend Over Affair."

Sherlock chuckled inwardly.

"Never are very original," He muttered to himself. He scanned the article, simply curious as to how the news had worded everything, and then- once deciding that he was satisfied with the details- he minimized the page. He then clicked the small email icon on his desktop, and a page popped up requesting his email address and his password.

Sherlock typed in both requirements, and then poked the enter key on his keyboard again. A long list of incoming emails had invaded his inbox, most of which were filled with people asking him simple questions about himself or people requesting his assistance in a problem that they had. A few had subject headlines that seemed somewhat less domestic.

Sherlock read through the several unimportant messages first. He answered a few of them, but discarded all of the seemingly unnecessary ones. He then clicked on one of the emails with a headline that read: ******I think my brother is a mass murderer**.

Sherlock's first assumption was that whoever sent him the email was probably just paranoid, but he knew better than to ignore such a serious accusation. He carefully read the three-paragraph report sent to him, and then contemplated on whether or not he should pursue the subject.

Sure, the woman who had sent it to him had justified her reasons for thinking that her brother was a killer. However, she had included her brother's name and details. Sherlock quickly researched him. If he ___was_a mass murderer, then Sherlock knew everything there was to know about him.

Sherlock found the thrill in the chase, and there was no chase here. He decided to forward the message to Lestrade for further inspection.

He then deleted the message and went back to his inbox. He clicked one of the three remaining messages, and another long report was found inside. Unlike the last message, however, this one was sent from somebody that he knew.

Sherlock groaned as he read the address that it was sent from:

He deleted the message without even reading it. He then went back to his mailbox and clicked one of the remaining messages. Within it was a detailed paragraph containing suspicion that an elderly woman's neighbor was a pedophile.

Sherlock carefully read the message, and then reopened the tab he had used to look up his last case. He typed in the name that the elderly woman had provided him with, and a Facebook account popped up.

He was American, mid-forties...  
And his teenage daughter was a child-minder.

Sherlock minimized his search again and went back to his e-mail. He clicked reply, and then typed in a short paragraph reassuring the old woman that her neighbor was not a pedophile, but that children would often occupy his home due to the fact that his daughter watched them for payment.

He also added that-If she found it necessary- she should keep a close eye on him and inform the police if anything truly seems out of place.

He then deleted the message and went back to his inbox. Besides the one message that he had expected to be left, a chat box had popped up on the screen. Sherlock read the pop-up, and then replied. The rest of the conversation went like this:

**__****Greg:**___What's with the email?_

**__****Sherlock:**___I found it in my inbox._

**__****Greg:**___And you sent it to me, because..._

**__****Sherlock:**___Too trivial. I don't want to waste my time on something so superficial._

**__****Greg:**___..._

**__****Sherlock:**___It should be easy enough for you to follow. However, I would rather not waste my time with such domestic affairs. For all I know, the woman who sent it to me could be a paranoid idiot._

**__****Greg:**___If you don't think it's worth worrying about, why did you send it to me?_

**__****Sherlock:** ___Sometimes it's the small details that make a big difference._

**__****Greg:**___Could you stop it with the riddles!_

**__****Sherlock:**___That should have been a question mark at the end, not an exclamation point._

**__****Greg:**___Sherlock!_

**__****Sherlock:**___All that I'm trying to say is that one should never underestimate an accusation. It seems harmless, but I want you to look into it anyway. If it turns out that I'm wrong, then you'll catch a killer, and it'll be another win for Scotland Yard._

**__****Greg:**___I thought this was the kind of stuff you lived for._

**__****Sherlock:**___I live for the chase, dear Lestrade. Everything's about the details._

**__****Greg:**___Quit being so melodramatic._

**__****Sherlock:**___Good luck._

After typing in that final reply, Sherlock got rid of the chat box and opened up his final email. This is exactly what it said:

___Hello, Sherlock. I do not like being ignored. If you don't satisfy my curiosity, there will be consequences._  
___Sincerely, Your biggest fan._

Sherlock froze, staring at the words in front of him for a good five minutes. It was the seventh email that Moriarty had sent him within that month. All of them had contained trivial questions about some small detail in Sherlock's life, and they were undoubtedly made just to toy with the consulting detective. He usually answered them just so Moriarty wouldn't get irritated and decide to create another serial killer in spite of his failure to reply. However, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that his answering the emails only enabled the man, so he had decided to stopped replying.

"D'you hear me?" John barked from the other room.

"Not now, John."

John let out a groan, but didn't say anything. Sherlock let out a deep sigh and did the usual; tracing the message back to its origin. All of his other attempts had proved futile, but he continued to trace the address just in case Moriarty slipped up and made a mistake.

The message traced back to somewhere in Korea, before which it had bounced off of somewhere in America, but originally came from somewhere in London. After several minutes of trying to find out where the email had originated, Sherlock finally came up with an address.

221b Baker Street.

Sherlock frowned. He typed something into his computer, and then waited for several agonizing seconds as the computer located the exact location that Moriarty's threat was sent from.

"Sherlock," John said, purposefully raising his voice so that he could distract Sherlock from the task at hand. Sherlock almost yelled at him, but decided that getting into another argument with his flat mate would do no good. He just waved him off and kept his eyes glued to the screen of his computer.

"Not now," He said.

"Right, then."

John went back to whatever he had been doing, and Sherlock's computer finally registered the IP address in which Moriarty's threat had been sent from. Sherlock read the results, nervously glanced towards the kitchen, and then looked back at his computer. He stared at the screen for a solid minute, and then swallowed hard.

How was that possible?


	5. Cyber Threats

John heard Sherlock say something, but he couldn't make it out from the kitchen. He picked up his sandwich and walked into the other room, curiously eyeballing the genius seated on the sofa a few feet away.

"Let's go out for dinner," Sherlock said. He closed his computer and stood up, carefully sitting it on a nearby table. He grabbed his scarf and wrapped it around his neck, then took John by the arm and dragged him towards the door.

"Well-Sherlock-Wait!"

John jerked his arm out of Sherlock's grasp and raised his sandwich for the taller man to see.

"I've just made-"

Sherlock snatched the sandwich out of his hand, took a bite of it, and then walked into the kitchen and threw it into the bin.

"What- I just made that!"

"It was delicious," Sherlock said, "Now let's go."

He made to grab John again, but the doctor jumped away and stared up at him as if he had grown a second head.

"Blimey. What's gotten in to you all of the sudden?"

Sherlock smiled, albeit a bit timidly, and then politely asked him to go to dinner with him. He was trying to keep his cool, but the fact that somebody was in his house- the fact that Moriarty had broken into his home, hacked his computer, sent him an email, and then left without anybody noticing...

It unnerved him, to say the least.

"Alright," John said. He dropped his head and walked away. Sherlock watched him walk into his bedroom and come out with his coat. He put his coat on and zipped it up, gesturing for Sherlock to go out first. Sherlock opened the door and climbed down the stairs, and John followed him. The two of them made their way outside, and Sherlock waved down a taxi.

"What's this about?" John asked as a taxi stopped in front of them. Sherlock jumped into the back seat of the vehicle and John quickly did the same, slamming the door next to him.

"We'll talk about it when we get there," Sherlock said. He didn't even bother to look over at John, just stared forward as if everything were normal. John opened his mouth to retort, but found himself at a loss for words.

"Where to?" The taxi driver asked. John looked over at Sherlock expectantly, unsure of where it was that the taller planned on going.

"Edgar's." Was all that Sherlock said. John recognized it as the name of a small cafe a few blocks away.

"Alrighty."

The driver continued driving down the street, and Sherlock remained silent. John looked over at his friend, up at the driver, and then back to Sherlock. He had no idea what was happening, and he didn't enjoy the feeling of ignorance one bit.

"Sherlock," He began to protest.

"I understand that you want to know," Sherlock said, "But it is dire that we save it for the cafe. Please tolerate me for the time being, John."

He didn't know why, but something in Sherlock's voice caught him off guard. He didn't sound like himself; he sounded unsure and timid. He'd even said_ please_.

Not only that, but Sherlock kept glancing out the window with a nervous look on his face. Once he noticed John staring at him, the expression disappeared, but John could still tell how nervous he was.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock to deduce that something was wrong.

When the taxi driver parked in front of the cafe that Sherlock had requested, Sherlock left the vehicle without a word. He walked around and stood by John's door, opening it after the doctor had paid the driver.

"Thanks," John said.

"You're welcome," Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly. John gave him a peculiar look, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Sherlock," John said as they approached the nearby building," Is everything alright? Are you-"

"I'm fine, John."

Sherlock opened the door and rushed inside. He visibly relaxed as soon as they entered the building, and John couldn't help but wonder why.

"Do you want anything, John?"

"Just let me order," John said, "We all know I'll be the one paying, anyway."

Sherlock's lips twitched upward.

"I'll take a coffee and turkey on rye. As for my friend here, well-"

He looked back at Sherlock, who had taken out his phone and was in the process of sending a text message.

"Sherlock."

The taller man looked up at him.

"What?"

"Do you want anything?"

"Tea's fine," Sherlock replied.

"Just tea?"

"Yes, John. Just tea."

He went back to typing his text message, and John completed his order. He paid the cashier in exact change, and then waited five minutes until his order was given to him. He handed Sherlock a Styrofoam cup filled with hot tea, and then grabbed his sandwich and coffee.

"Thank you," He said towards the cashier. The cashier wished him a good day, and then walked off to do something in a room labeled 'Employees Only'.

"Sherlock, mind telling me what this is about?" John asked. He led the taller man to a table in front of the front wall, which was almost completely made of glass.

"Not near the window," Sherlock replied, giving the glass wall a furtive glance. John furrowed his brow and let out a sigh.

"Why?"

"Because it's cold outside, and glass is a terrible insulator. Especially this glass. There are no panes, so the cold will travel through easier."

"Yeah, uh...Okay."

John stood up and walked over to a tall table in the middle of the room without further argument. He put his sandwich down on the table, and then climbed into one of the rather tall seats. Sherlock sat his tea down, unraveled his scarf, took his coat off, and then hung his coat and scarf on the back of his chair. He stuffed his mobile into his pocket, and then took a seat across from his shorter friend.

"Well, then."

"Yes," John said, "Do tell."

"I don't want to scare you, John, but-"

"I've been in Afghanistan," John remarked matter-of-factly.

"Yes. Well, somebody's been in our flat."

John cocked his head to the side and studied Sherlock carefully.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?"

"Somebody's been in our flat, John."

Sherlock paused, glanced around to make sure that nobody was close enough to be listening, and then turned back to his friend.

"Somebody's been in our flat," He repeated in a quieter voice as he leaned in closer to John, "They got on my computer, sent me an email, and left. Or maybe they didn't leave. I don't know, but I didn't go through the entire house to make sure, and I didn't want to keep you in danger."

"Heaven's be, Sherlock…You've gone mad, haven't you?"

"Shush. I'm being serious."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, and then realized that he wasn't messing around. He wasn't just paranoid, either; Sherlock Holmes didn't do paranoid.

"Sherlock," John said, "Could you slow down? What's got you all ruffled?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath and combed his hand through his short dark curls. John unwrapped the foil around his sandwich and picked the sandwich up, taking a large bite out of it.

"I've been getting these...emails," Sherlock said in a hushed voice, "And I didn't think they were anything to worry about. But I keep getting them, and Moriarty-"

John nearly choked to death on his sandwich.

"Moriarty?" He asked incredulously, hitting his chest as he cleared his throat.

"Keep your voice down," Sherlock replied.

"You get emails from the most dangerous man in London," John said a bit quieter, "And you didn't think it was anything to worry about?"

"Would you just shut up for a moment?"

"Okay. Go on, then."

"They're idiotic, really. I'm sure he sends them just to get on my nerves."

"What're they about?" John asked.

"Me," Sherlock replied, "They're always about me. What my favorite colour is, my sexual interests..."

"Sexual interests?"

"Yes. And I know he deliberately does it just to irritate me."

"Right," John said, "But why are you just now bringing this up?"

"Because I stopped responding three days ago, and now he's threatened me."

"Threatened you? How so?"

"In an email. He's upset, because I've stopped responding, and he said -I quote- If you don't satisfy my curiosity, there will be consequences. Unquote."

John took another bite out of his sandwich and stared at Sherlock with his brow furrowed in concentration. He couldn't help but wonder what Jim was trying to get out of this. Besides Sherlock's withering patience, of course. Because Sherlock was obviously done with the man. Any average bloke could see that.

"Well, you obviously can't keep responding," John replied.

"I'm aware. But I don't want to put you in danger."

"How are you putting me in danger?"

Sherlock glared down at the table, silently cursing Moriarty.

"Sherlock," John said, "Did he say anything about me, specifically?"

Sherlock looked up at him and shook his head. He put his elbows on the table and folded his fingers together, propping his head on his hands.

"Then there's no need to worry about me. I appreciate the thought, but I'm a grown man. I can handle myself."

"This is Moriarty, John. He's one of the smartest men in London, and he's a killer. You're just...Well, you're just a homely little doctor."

"Well, thanks a lot!" John exclaimed, clearly insulted.

"I don't mean to be rude, but you aren't nearly as bright as I am."

"Is there a point to your ridiculing me?"

"I'm simply stating-"

"You're callin' me an idiot! There's nothing else to it."

"Okay, yes. But it's for your own good, John."

John raised his brow, intrigued.

"Mhmm. How so?"

"Moriarty was in the flat," Sherlock said.

John dropped his sandwich onto the table and his jaw fell slack.

"He...He what?"

"I traced his latest email, and it originated from my computer."

"Oh."

"Yes," Sherlock said, " I am simply telling you that he was in our home, and you need to be careful."

John picked up his sandwich and stared at it with a blank expression on his face.

"I think it would be best for us to stay together, or at least make sure that there are always witnesses around."

John looked up at him and nodded his head.

"Probably best," He agreed.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Sherlock asked.

John took a moment to mull it over, and then carefully placed his sandwich down on the foil. He picked his coffee up and took a sip of it, nearly burning his tongue in the process.

"Huh! Jeez, that's hot."

"It does say Caution: Contents Hot," Sherlock pointed out, jabbing a finger toward the small typeface on the side of the container facing him. John gave him a bemused look.

"Anyways...I think I work tomorrow."

"Right," Sherlock said, "Good."

He snatched John's sandwich and took a bite out of it. John opened his mouth to say something, but didn't know what to say, so he just stared at him dumbly.

"You look like an imbecile when you make that face," Sherlock said with his mouth half-full.

"This is delicious," Sherlock added, looking down at the sandwich he had just stolen. He took another bite out of it, and then tossed it back onto the square of foil in front of John.

"Is that all?" John asked sardonically, "Sure you're finished?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock replied, "I'm not too dreadfully hungry. Thanks for the offer, though."

He then picked up his tea and sniffed it.

"What kind of tea is this?"

"Cinnamon," John hissed.

"Ah. Good."

He took a sip of it and then smiled.

"Thank you," He said, "It's magnificent."

"No problem," John said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He stood up and grabbed his sandwich, throwing it into a nearby bin. When he walked back to the table, Sherlock had put his coat back on and was in the process of wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"I'm ready to leave," He said. He then walked off without waiting for John to reply.


	6. An Unwanted Visitor

John's alarm woke him from a rather peaceful slumber at six in the morning. The doctor smacked it off of the night stand and let out a groan, sluggishly swinging his feet over the edge of his bed. He sat up and stretched out his arms, then rolled his shoulders a few times and stood up.

"Good morning," Sherlock said as he walked into the living area, "You look absolutely dreadfully."

"Thanks," John sarcastically replied.

He looked over to find Sherlock in his favourite chair, reading the newspaper. He had a plate of scones on the arm of the chair, but it didn't seem like he had even taken a bite out of one.

"It's nice today," Sherlock offered, "Very warm outside."

"Thank heavens," John said as he scratched the stubble beginning to grow along his lip. Sherlock didn't reply, but that was to be expected. The fact that he had even mentioned the weather was a surprise to John.

All well.

John shuffled into the kitchen and started the kettle, asking Sherlock if he wanted any tea. Surprisingly, he actually answered him.

"I could do," He said.

John turn the stovetop on and carefully placed the kettle on a burner.

"By the way," John yelled onto the other room, "You pulled me off to that cafe last night, and I forgot the kettle on. Mrs. Hudson wasn't very pleased about having to come up here to turn the stove off."

Sherlock didn't reply. John shrugged his silence off and continued what he was doing. Looking for something to eat, he opened the refrigerator. He immediately lost his craving for food as soon as he saw the plastic container that Sherlock was using to store some sort of animal brain.

Shutting the refrigerator, John shuffled into the living room.

"I'm getting in the shower," He said, "Listen for the kettle."

"Okay," Sherlock said, although not really paying any attention.

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock snapped, looking up at him.

"I said listen for the kettle," John reiterated, knowing full-well that Sherlock didn't hear him the first time.

"Alright!"

John nodded his head, and then snatched a towel and made his way into the bathroom. He took off his shirt, threw it onto the floor, and then did the same with his trousers. After turning the shower faucet on, he waited until the water was a preferred temperature, and then stepped under the water and rinsed himself off.

John took less than ten minutes in the shower, and then grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist. That's when he realized that he had forgotten to get himself a fresh pair of clothes.

"Dammit."

He thought about dressing back in the clothes that he had slept in, but decided against it. Besides, his bedroom wasn't too far away, and Sherlock was distracted by the local media, anyway.

Slowly, he opened the bathroom door and looked around. After making sure that Sherlock wasn't nearby, he crept out into the hall and began making his way towards his bedroom. Just as he was approaching his bedroom, he heard Sherlock call out to him.

"Why are you naked?"

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

John ran up to his bedroom door and opened it, running inside and slamming it behind him. Sherlock chuckled loudly. John backed up and leaned against his door, all red-faced with embarrassment as the humiliating laugh echoed throughout the building.

"I hate him," He muttered to himself, "I really do."

When John reappeared, he was fully clothed. His face was red as a tomato, and Sherlock found it extremely amusing to see so. He didn't say anything about it, though.

"So," He said, "What's your plan for today?"

"Work."

"Good."

Sherlock stood up and folded his newspaper, tossing it into the bin. He neatly rolled up the sleeves of the nice dark blue dress shirt that he was wearing, and then made for the door.

"Well, I got a message from Mycroft," Sherlock replied with a mischievous grin, "So I'm going to go put myself somewhere where he can't find me."

John laughed.

"Right then," He replied.

Sherlock opened the door and started to make his way down the stairs. John followed him outside, and they parted ways.

"Be careful," John said.

"I will," Sherlock replied.

The taller man started making his way in the opposite direction, and John spotted a dark Mercedes that pulled out as soon as Sherlock passed it. John watched from down the street as the vehicle pulled up to Sherlock and parked. A large man in a dark suit stepped out, and Sherlock immediately broke into a sprint down the street. John chuckled to himself as he realized that Sherlock's plan to avert his brother had failed.

He leaned against the nearby building and watched with much amusement as the large man hired by Mycroft grabbed Sherlock and picked him up. Sherlock flailed around like a child throwing a tantrum, spitting out profanities loud enough for John to hear him. He didn't succeed in escaping, though. He was stuffed into the back of the Mercedes and locked in. His steroid-filled captor walked back to the front of the vehicle and stepped into the driver's seat, slamming his door shut and speeding down the road.

As the car disappeared into the distance, John turned around and continued walking. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile, realizing that he had left it in his bedroom. That's when he realized that he had also forgotten his wallet.

"You've got to be kidding me," He said aloud to himself. He quickly spun around and began making his way back to the flat. Just as he made it to the front door, Mrs. Hudson was stepping outside.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good Morning, John. Where's Sherlock?"

"Ah, well...He's somewhere with his brother."

The older woman smiled knowingly.

"Let's hope he isn't in too much trouble."

John smiled, nodding his head in agreement. The older woman walked off and began making her way down the road, wishing him a good day.

"You too," He said as he pushed the door open and walked inside. He shut the door behind him and glanced over at the square of wall that was a shade lighter than the rest due to a picture frame hanging there most of the time. An image of Sherlock slamming the door after their argument flashed through his mind. John shook the memory away and began climbing the stairs, chuckling inwardly. He opened the door and walked inside, stopping in the living area to think about where he had left his essentials. He was relatively sure that he had left his wallet in the drawer of his night stand, but he wasn't sure where his mobile was. It might also be in the drawer of his night stand, so he decides to look.

He walked into his room and retrieved his wallet, but his mobile was nowhere to be seen. He checked the kitchen, but it wasn't in there, either.

As he walked into the living area to look, something caught his eye.

"Hello there, Johnny."

John's face melted into a grimace as soon as he laid eyes on him. He froze in place and just stood there, staring dumbly at the man before him. There's something in the way he looks, something in the pleasant smile on his face...

It sent a chill down his spine.

"How'd you get in here?" John casually asked, staying as calm as possible. He was relatively sure that his heart rate was abnormal, but he tried not to focus on that.

He's been in Afghanistan, for God's sake. He's seen people gunned down, watched friends die right in front of him. He's not going to let one singular being scare him. Because Moriarty's not nearly as strong as some of the soldiers that John has been up against, and he definitely doesn't possess as much gun power.

He's one man...

John underestimates him.


	7. Desecration

John slowly backed up, thinking that if he can get to his bedroom, he can get to his gun. If he can get to his gun, he can shoot the evil fucker down and all of the Moriarty issues will be done and over with.

"Sorry, but you aren't going to find this in its usual place," Moriarty said, holding up John's pistol. John looked up at it and silently cursed.

"Sit down, Doctor Watson."

His tone had changed completely, and it had been more of a demand than a polite request. Once he aimed the pistol he was holding at the older man, John slowly made his way over to the sofa and sat down.

"Do you know why I'm here?" Moriarty asked with a malevolent grin.

"I assume I walked in on you looking for something. Possibly Sherlock. Or maybe you wanted to trash the place; to get a point across?"

"Not bad, Johnny. Not bad at all."

"So which is it?" John asked.

"Neither."

John just stared at him, waiting for further explanation.

"You're right," Moriarty continued, "I do want to get a point across. I assume that Sherlock told you about my emails."

"Yes."

"So you know why I'm here?"

"Sherlock ignored you."

"Very smart, doctor. Very smart."

He took a large step forward, closing the gap between them. John sat further back into the sofa as if he was trying to hide himself in the piece of furniture. Moriarty could sense the fear emanating from him. He raised his gun and pressed the barrel directly against John's forehead. John swallowed hard and stared at him. The evil genius lowered his gun and let out a hysterical laugh, then he swung the heavy weapon at John and hit him in his temple.

John fell onto the ground, but quickly jumped up and grabbed the first thing he saw. He threw the plate of scones at Moriarty's head, but Moriarty dodged it and raised his gun. John quickly hit it out of his hand, and it flew across the room. He made to run for it, and Moriarty grabbed him, throwing him onto the floor. He climbed on the doctor and threw a punch, but John quickly recovered and hit him back. His fist rammed into Moriarty's gut several times, and then Moriarty crumbled onto the floor. John started to get up and make his way over to his gun, but he was surprised by a rather large book flying into his side. He tripped and fell onto his knees.

Moriarty swung the book again, hitting him in the head. It sent him sideways, and he smacked his head against the ground. As Moriarty ran over to retrieve the gun, John sprang back onto his feet. As soon as he was upright, everything around him started spinning. He took a moment to try to regain his bearings, but he couldn't.

Suddenly, he was back on the floor, and Moriarty was on top of him. Moriarty grabbed him by his hair and pulled his head up, then he slammed his head into the ground. John's head bounced off of the hardwood floor, and his eyes began to roll back in his head.

Everything was spinning.

He tried to push against the floor to get up, but he couldn't stay up. It felt as if gravity was working against him, and his head ached. Moriarty grabbed his arm and twisted it into a painful position. He tried to push himself up with one arm, but it wouldn't work. He collapsed back onto the ground, and his head smacked against the floor again. It felt as if someone had thrown a hammer into his temple, and the pain resonated throughout his entire head. His ears started ringing, and his vision threatened to fade away, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He widened his eyes and took a deep breath, cursing out loud as the room continued to spin. Furniture was dancing around him. Moriarty was saying something, but it sounded as if he were listening to him talk underwater.

And then he could hear him.

"This is how I'm going to get his attention," Moriarty hissed in his ear.

John heard him clearly, but he didn't really take in the meaning of what he said until he felt Moriarty reaching under him for his belt. Then he knew what was happening, and he felt an overwhelming urgency as the man succeeded in unbuckling his belt. A pit filled in his stomach, and he started thrashing around like an idiot.

It only worsened his condition, though. The room spun more erratically now, and he felt like his lungs were being squeezed. He couldn't catch his breath, and he couldn't take control of the situation. Moriarty twisted his arm even further, and he actually yelped, receiving a low snicker from his assailant.

"Be a good boy, John."

John bucked against the floor, and Moriarty lost his hold on his arm. Without hesitation, John pushed himself off of the floor, and Moriarty fell off of him. Before John could stand up, though, he swung the gun into John's back. John fell onto the floor again and yelled.

Within seconds, Moriarty was on top of him again. He was pushing his head into the floor, and the pressure made John's skull throb. The edges of his vision started to fade inwards, and his ears were ringing again.

Worst of all, he couldn't move.

He was being pulled towards the floor like a magnet to a refrigerator, and he couldn't move his arms. The wall was shaking in front of him, and the furniture started dancing again. It wouldn't stop. He couldn't think straight. What was happening?

And then he felt his trousers being tugged on, and he remembered. Moriarty was trying to...

"Get off of me!" John yelled, bucking against the floor again.

Everything was hazy, but he was aware enough to know what was happening to him. He could feel his trousers being yanked down to his ankles, and he could hear the sound of Moriarty's zipper. He was groped and squeezed, and then propped up for some leverage.

Finally, Moriarty took a sharp intake of breath and slowly inserted himself. John screamed as the pain filled his arse, and then Moriarty pulled out. He pushed himself in again without allowing John enough time to adjust. He was careful with every movement; hard enough to make it hurt, but not hard enough to seriously damage anything. After all, he wanted the man to live so that he could share his experience with his friend. Every thrust came slow, but deep and rough.

John was feeling every second of it. It dug into him, defiled him, killed him. It took something away, and he just wanted to die. The pain was unbearable, and the emotional destruction was even worse. How could something like this be happening to him?

"Sherlock!"

Moriarty let out a low cackle, grabbing him by his hair. He pulled his head back and smiled in his ear, breathing heavily as he pumped into him with force.

"Bet you wish it were him. Don't you, Johnny?"

John clenched his teeth as a lump formed in his throat. His eyes glazed over, and he felt the familiar burn as his eyes threatened to betray him. He didn't want to cry, he really didn't. But he couldn't control it. Tears rolled down his cheeks, rolled off of his chin, and then dripped onto the floor to mix with the puddle of red that his bloody nose had caused.

Moriarty fastened his pace, pushing into the man with sheer force that made it feel like he was actually being ripped apart. John yelled. He screamed, and cursed, and pleaded as loud as his lungs would allow.

"Ever been fucked by a man before, Johnny?"

John choked out a sob as Moriarty pulled himself out and then made one slow, deep push inside of him. He hit John's prostate, and the helpless doctor was forced into erection.

"Doesn't it feel nice," Moriarty said between breaths, "To have me entirely inside of you?"

He gradually became faster again, and then he stiffened, and John knew exactly what was coming next. He had really hoped that Moriarty wouldn't do it inside of him; he had silently pleaded with God to let the man pull out and leave him at least a tiny bit of dignity. But no. Moriarty shoved his cock as far as he could, and then came inside of him, filling him with his warm fluid. He lingered there for a moment, and then he collapsed on top of his victim, panting like a dog.

John didn't move. He just laid there with his eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched so hard that his jaw hurt. 

After his assailant managed to catch his breath, he finally let go of him and stood up. John remained on the floor, silently wishing that Moriarty would take his gun and kill him. Moriarty stared down at him for a moment, as if silently pondering something, and then he tucked his cock back into his trousers and zipped himself up. He then fixed his hair and left without a word. 


	8. Hiding Behind the Lies

A very agitated Sherlock was brought to an abandoned warehouse located almost an hour away from his flat. His abductor parked in front of the run-down building and stepped out of the car, walking around the vehicle to open Sherlock's door. As soon as the back door opened, Sherlock jumped out and broke into a sprint, running in the direction opposite of the building that he was originally intended to go. Unfortunately, Sherlock was tackled before he could even get five yards away. His abductor grabbed him from behind, and both men fell onto the ground. Sherlock received most of the impact.

"Piss off!" Sherlock yelled, squirming underneath the heavy man on top of him. The man stood up and picked him off of the ground as if he weighed nothing, then carried him all the way back to the warehouse and put him in a chair in the middle of an empty room. He then took his position on Sherlock's left. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared angrily at the wall several feet in front of him until a familiar voice echoed throughout the room.

"Hello, my dear brother."

Mycroft materialized next to a large metal shelf off to the right. Sherlock could see him in his peripheral vision, but didn't bother to look over.

"We need to have a talk," Mycroft said. He walked over to Sherlock and stood in front of him, leaning on the end of a dark umbrella. When Sherlock finally looked up to acknowledge him, he smiled politely. Sherlock still continued to glare.

"Don't be like that," Mycroft said as the younger sibling failed to speak, "It's childish. And Frankly, Sherlock, it's beneath you."

"I don't care."

Mycroft's expression hardened and he just stared at him for a moment. He then let out a deep sigh.

"I don't know why you continue to do this," He replied.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Anyways," Mycroft said, "Let's get down to business." He paused, and then continued with: "How are you doing?"

"Tell me you did not drag me all the way here just to ask about my day."

Mycroft stared dumbly at him for a second, and then rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He checked the time displayed on his watch, tiredly scrubbed the side of his face with his hand, and then dropped his hand back to his side.

"I've got to board a plane to Wales in an hour, so we need to make this as quick as possible. It would be much easier for me if you would cooperate. If not, then at least just listen to me."

It was then that Sherlock noticed the small blotch of skin on his brother's face that seemed a bit lighter than the rest. He stared at it for a moment, and then realized that it was makeup. Mycroft must have been assaulted. The thought of it made Sherlock smile.

"Who hit you?" Sherlock asked, clearly intrigued by the cover-up. Mycroft stiffened.

"What makes you ask that?" Mycroft asked.

"The blotch of concealer on your jaw," Sherlock replied with a smug look on his face. He pointed to the same spot on his own face, and Mycroft frowned.

"Small breach in security," Mycroft said. His eyes seemed distant as he reveled in the memory. There were a few moments of silence, and then Mycroft's guard cleared his throat.

"Anyways," Mycroft shook himself out of the reverie and managed another smile, "Yes. I'm here just to see how you are. You are my brother, after all, and I do worry about you."

"Worry," He said in mock disbelief, "Yes, I'm sure you're _real worried _about me."

"I _am_," Mycroft barked, obviously wounded by Sherlock's assumption that he didn't really care. It was typical, though. Mycroft couldn't even remember when it last was that his younger brother and he had actually been able to have a civil conversation. It had been years. Fifteen, at least.

"There's nothing to worry about," Sherlock said.

"I'm well aware of the messages that you've been receiving from your so-called 'biggest fan', Sherlock."

Sherlock glared daggers at the man in from of him and yelled, cursing him for invading his email.

"That's none of your business!"

"It is now. You know, Sherlock, I wouldn't _have_ to snoop through your email or have somebody abduct you if you'd just _talk_ to me. I'm your brother. I deserve at least a call every now and then…just to let me know that you're alive."

Sherlock hated him. He didn't trust him, and he hated him. He _despised_ him. He saw him as nothing more than a liar who kept him close enough to control him. And he hated being controlled. He was a grown man, and he had the right to his personal space.

Except for when Mycroft was around. The older git didn't allow him any personal life whatsoever, and had tendencies to go through his things without asking. It was irksome, to say the least.

Mycroft just wanted to help, though. He really did have the best of intentions for his younger brother, and he wanted him to be safe. But Sherlock disliked him for some reason; so he had to take it upon himself to make sure that the young prodigy went unharmed. And- whether Sherlock approved or not- he would do anything in his power to do so.

"I'll deal with Moriarty," Mycroft said. Sherlock would never admit it, but he actually felt better to hear that.

"Do be careful," Mycroft added. He took another glance at his watch and let out a displeased sigh. After giving Sherlock an expression that seemed almost sad, he turned around and gestured for the large brute standing beside Sherlock to follow. He then led the man away, and Sherlock watched them disappear through a nearby exit.

Sherlock stood up and dusted himself off, muttering derogatory things about Mycroft under his breath. He grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and threw it for good measure, then made his way out the same door that Mycroft had left through.

Outside was a taxi waiting for him, already paid in the amount necessary to make it back to Baker Street.

…

When Sherlock finally arrived back at the flat, John had already taken a shower, put on a fresh pair of bottoms, and even cleaned the living area so that there was no evidence that anything had gone awry. Sherlock didn't notice anything out of place; he had no need for suspicion.

John lay in bed with nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms on, staring up at the ceiling when he heard the front door swing open and then slam aggressively. He stiffened, unaware of who had just entered the household, and then relaxed as soon as he heard the angry profanities coming from his flat mate's mouth.

He even managed a smile.

And then there were three firm knocks on his bedroom door, and he could feel his heart pounding against his chest as his anxiety spiked.

"Yes?" He asked, trying his best to keep his voice calm. His throat hurt due to his earlier screaming, and he suddenly wondered how in the world nobody had heard him.

He felt extremely lucky that nobody had called the police.

"I thought you had to work today." Sherlock said. All that John heard was a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"What?" John sat up- Well, sat up as best he could, anyway. He still couldn't manage to sit up correctly due to the immense pain in his arse, so ended up half-leaning backwards. Sherlock slowly creaked the door open, peering into the dark room suspiciously. Fortunately, it was too dark for him to see John's face properly, and John was quite thankful for that.

"Are you feeling under the weather?" Sherlock asked.

"A bit," John said. He faked a cough, and then lay back down in bed and wrapped his body in his blanket. He felt the need to hide, even though it was impossible for Sherlock to see him as dark as t was.

"Did you move my brain?" Sherlock asked.

"Did I what?"

John looked over at him and raised an eyebrow curiously.

"I had a sheep brain in the refrigerator. It was in a large Tupperware container, soaking in preservatives."

"Should still be there," John said.

Sherlock shut the door without saying anything else. A wave of relief hit John as soon as he was gone, and he no longer felt the need to hide under the blanket anymore. He flicked the large comforter off of himself and lay on his stomach, staring over at the alarm clock sitting on top of his nightstand.

It was only five in the afternoon, but it felt like one in the morning. So much had happened in so little time...

Something started vibrating in the drawer of John's nightstand. John reached over and opened the drawer, reaching inside to retrieve his mobile. He flipped it open and put it against his ear, answering with the usual:

"John Watson speaking."

He hated how small and weak his voice sounded, but he couldn't help it. He felt so tired. He didn't have the energy to manage anything above a whisper.

"Hello, John," Said a familiar female voice," You're aware that you have work today, right?"

It was one of his co-workers, calling in to make sure he was alright.

"Oh," John said, suddenly realizing that he had completely forgotten to call off work.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, sorry. I was...I was mugged. I meant to call in, but I must have forgotten in the gist of things. Terribly sorry."

"Oh my! Are you okay?"

"Yes," He said, "Just a few minor injuries. He got the worst of it."

"You sound dreadful."

"I'm fine," John reassured her, "It's just that the whole process is quite stressful. Had to file a report, have the paramedics check me over...It's nothing, really. Just a few bruises and a minor leg injury."

It was a rather good bluff, actually. Spending time with Sherlock, John had learned a few tricks. He thought about all of his injuries, and quickly came up with a reasonable excuse for them.

"Don't fret," John said, "I should be back tomorrow. I'll have a bruise on my face, though. Bugger hit me pretty hard. And he kicked me in my leg hard enough to give me a limp. I'm probably going to be back on the cane for a while."

"Oh, wow. Well, I hope you feel better, John. Be careful."

"I will. Have a good day, Jonie."

John flipped his mobile shut and tossed it on the nightstand, groaning into his pillow. He suddenly realized that he would have to explain his injuries to Sherlock, and knew that he would have to be very detailed in order to pull the wool over a genius like Sherlock's eyes.

He went over the story in his head, and made sure that he didn't miss anything.

_He'd been on his way to work, when somebody jumped out of nowhere and hit him in the head with a glass bottle. He had been lucky enough that the glass didn't cut him, but he stumbled back into a car mirror. That's where the bruise on his back had come from. The assailant swung at him, and he ducked. He tackled the man onto the ground, but retrieved a fist in his mouth. He fell backwards, and the man climbed on top of him and punched him in the shoulder. That's why his shoulder was bruised. When he tried to hit the man back, he grabbed his wrist, and that's what the bruise around his wrist was from._

_He used his free hand to hit his attacker square in the face, and it must have been hard enough to daze him. From there, it took a few hits in the face, and a kick in the side. Then his attacker was subdued, and he had won._

And that's how he still had his wallet and all of his money. It wasn't the truth, of course, but it explained his injuries, and Sherlock had no reason to question it.

_It would work._

"John!"

John had no time to react before Sherlock had swung the door open and burst into the bedroom. Sherlock flipped the light switch and John sprang up, looking over at his flat mate with wide eyes. Sherlock froze in place, staring at him. It took all of John's strength to remain calm. He made a fist with his hand and dug his fingernails into his palm, focusing on the pain.

"What?" John asked. His voice came out surprisingly normal. He forced himself to talk as profoundly as possible.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and studied him, silently examining the injuries visible on his friend's body. He suddenly felt very concerned.

"What happened to you?" He asked. His voice was barely above a whisper, and John found himself surprised by how sincere his expression was. He'd never seen Sherlock so worried. It made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry," John said, "I was attacked. I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to worry you."

He faked a smile and sat up. Pain coursed through his posterior, and he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from screaming. He could taste the familiar copper as blood filled his mouth.

Sherlock walked over to him and raised his hand. John flinched away, and Sherlock let out a sigh.

"Calm down," He said. He grabbed John's chin and raised his head so that he could get a better view of him. John had to fight the urge to jerk away. Sherlock almost immediately realized how uneasy his friend was, so he reluctantly dropped his hand back to his side and took a cautious step back. His harsh blue eyes scrutinized every inch of the man before him, and John shifted uncomfortably.

"Are you alright?" He asked. John looked up at him, but didn't make eye contact.

"I'm good," He lied.

"If you don't mind," Sherlock said, "I would very much like to know what happened."

"I was mugged."

The reply came out a bit too quickly.

"Mugged?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at John with a hint of suspicion.

John paused, knowing that another quick reply would make Sherlock doubt him.

"Well, somebody attempted to mug me, anyway. I mean, I think that's what it was. I was attacked, either way."

The answer seemed to please Sherlock. He waited for John to continue, so John gave him the details of the attack.

"I was on my way to work, when somebody lashed out at me. The bloke hit me in the side of the head with a bloody beer bottle."

Sherlock nodded. That explained the large bruise on John's face.

"I fell into someone's car, and got a large bruise on my back from the side mirror. Thing hurt like hell."

Sherlock nodded again. He silently stood there, and John knew that he would want the rest of the story. John let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. He readjusted himself, and a pained expression flashed across his face. Luckily, Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"Look, we fought, he grabbed me, I hit him...I won. I already filed a report with the police, and a paramedic looked over the extent of my injuries. Now, if you don't mind, I'm tired."

"Fine," Sherlock said. He walked out of the room, but stopped and turned around in the door way to give John one last look. He silently nodded in his direction, and then reached over to turn the lights off. He flipped the light switch, and them he grabbed the door and gently shut it.

John took in a deep breath and exhaled in the form if a relieved sigh. He carefully lowered himself back onto the bed, and then drifted off into his own thoughts.


	9. Alcohol-Induced

Unable to close his eyes without Moriarty's face plaguing his vision, John didn't get any sleep whatsoever for the next two nights. He'd lie down in bed and stare up at the ceiling, but didn't allow himself to close his eyes. He couldn't handle the miserable things that threatened to invade his mind whenever he did.

So he went two days with no sleep, running on nothing other than determination and coffee. He went to work as usual, helped Sherlock with a few cases, and acted as if everything were normal. It was quite obvious, however, that nothing was normal. He could barely keep his eyes open, and the bags under his eyes were very defined. He seemed unusually depressed, and his psychosomatic limp had reappeared.

Sherlock waved it off as a trigger from John's attack, but other people were beginning to notice the symptoms. People at work were worried. Coworkers would give John the usual glance of concern, but nobody had the guts to speak up. John was somewhat thankful for that.

But on the third night after Moriarty attacked him, John finally found himself incapable of staying awake any longer. He was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as usual, when his eyes felt so dreadfully heavy that he just couldn't keep them open anymore. Finally, he fell unconscious due to sleep deprivation. Within seconds, his dreams took a turn for the worse.

The scene flashed before him, and he was met by his rapist once more. He could taste the thick coppery blood in his mouth as his lip split open. He could feel the pressure in his arse, and the unwanted warmth of another man's body lying on top of him. Warm breath invaded the crook of his neck as groans echoed through the room.

Please stop.

_Please._

_**Please!**_

"John!"

He was jerked away from the disgusting nightmare as Sherlock shook him awake. His eyes popped open, and he looked over to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed, giving him a worrisome look. Unexpectedly, he let out a gasp and flinched away from the dark figure next to him. He only calmed down when he recognized its voice.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John visibly relaxed, lying back down.

"Fine," He said, forcing himself to stay calm. His voice quivered a bit, but it wasn't too noticeable. Sherlock squinted at him, but didn't pry. It was obvious that he was tired, and he probably just wanted to go back to bed and get some sleep.

"Right, then. Well, you were screaming, so I just came in to wake you up."

"I was?" John asked.

"Yes. thought we were being murdered."

Sherlock smirked, and John forced himself to smile back for good measure. He would have forged a laugh, but his throat hurt. Had he really been screaming that loudly?

"I'm dreadfully sorry," John said. Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the issue. He figured that the nightmare had to do with John's diagnosed PTSD, so it wasn't much of a concern to him.

"It's fine, really. Just a bit annoying."

John stared dumbly at him for a moment, and then glanced over at the clock on his nightstand. It was only three in the morning?

"I'm going to attempt a few more hours of sleep," Sherlock replied, "If you could manage not to wake me up screaming again, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Of course," John replied rather sardonically. Sherlock stood up and made leave of him, shutting the door on his way out. John listened as his soft footsteps disappeared, and then he just laid there staring at the ceiling for a while.

His eyes slowly started to fall closed again, but he caught himself. He quickly opened them and sat upright.

After a few moments of pondering what to do with himself, he stood up and walked over to his closet. He pulled out a pair of jeans and a white dress shirt. He put them on, tossed his pajama bottoms into a hamper, and then slipped into a pair of boots and grabbed his cane.

His leg had stopped working properly, and the cane had become a habit the last three days.

John put his coat on and zipped it up all the way, and then he walked over to the bedroom door and slowly creaked it open. He made his way out of his bedroom and closed the door as quietly as he could, then he tip toed through the area and made his way downstairs. He left the building, and began making his way down the street.

"Woah," He said aloud as he hugged himself. It was extremely cold outside; less than zero degrees Celsius, for sure.

John didn't mind, though. The coldness numbed him. It was strong enough to retain all of his attention, so he didn't have to focus on all of the other things threatening to plague his thoughts. He focused on his numb cheeks and his aching fingers.

John made his way down the street and took a right turn. He made his way down the road, crossing halfway. He walked over to the entrance of a tavern, opened the door, and then hobbled inside. His arrival sparked the interest of several different people, and he was receiving odd stares from every direction-most likely due to how beaten he appeared. He tried to ignore them, though. He walked straight up to the bar, climbed onto one of the rather tall stools, and then waved down the barman.

"How can I help ya?" The tall blonde had a surprisingly deep Scottish accent.

"Just get me something strong."

The barman nodded, walking off to find the suitable drink for his newest customer. He reappeared moments later, offering John a small glass filled with what looked like liquid honey.

"Rum," The barman said, "Has a 151 proof. Should give you the kick you're lookin' for."

John looked up at the tall blonde man, and then back down at his drink. Without hesitation, he picked it up and put it to his lips. Within seconds, he had downed the entire glass. The barman watched with astonishment as he dropped it back onto the bar and requested another.

Three more later, John was done. His vision was blurred, the room around him seemed to be spinning, and he kept swaying in his seat. The barman was giving him a concerned look, but didn't say anything.

"Gimme another," John slurred.

"I don' think that's a good idea..."

"I didn't ask your opinion," John barked.

"You're gonna give yourself alcohol poisonin'."

"Oh, just-"

"I'm pretty sure the guy said no more," Piped up a short business-like man on the other end of the bar. John glared over at him and told him to piss off. The man stood up and began making his way over to him. John managed to stand up without falling, but used the edge of the bar for support.

"You should leave," The short man replied. He combed his hand through his ink black hair, and then crossed his arms over his chest. He took a step forward so that there was a mere foot separating him from John, and then he let out a low irritated sigh.

"I'll leave after I get my drink."

"Call your ride and get out of here."

John took a step towards him and straightened up, poised to begin a fight. The man was about an inch shorter than him, but he didn't seem very intimidated. He should have been, because John had been in battle, and he wasn't about to let someone hurt him again.

"Hey," The barman said, "Let's calm down."

Without warning, John took a swing at the man who had approached him. The suit ducked, and then sent his own fist into John's gut. As drunk as he was, John didn't even feel it. He swung around the man and wrapped his arm around his neck, squeezing as hard as he could. The barman quickly ran over and tried to pry John's arms off of the man, but didn't succeed. John used one arm to elbow the Berman in his face, and the blonde stumbled backwards. He cupped his hands over his face as his nose began bleeding profusely.

"Get off of me, you drunken fucker!" Yelled the man who John was currently attempting to strangle. John tightened his grip on the man's throat, and he gasped for air.

Fortunately for John's victim, John lost his balance and fell. His let go of the man and fell onto the floor. John smacked onto the hardwood, and his head started spinning. The next thing he knew was that the man had climbed on top of him. The image triggered a flashback, and all that John could see was Moriarty on top of him. His adrenaline kicked in, and he went into survival mode.

John grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket and head-butted him square in the forehead. He then shoved him off of himself and crawled on top of him, throwing several punches directly into his face. The man tried to fight back, but John was a lot stronger than he looked. He hit him three times in the face, and the man blacked out. John didn't care. He continued to punch him repeatedly, and managed to get another two hits on him before somebody finally pulled him off.

It took three different men to get him off, and then two of them had to sit on him to keep him subdued while the barman called the police. John continued to fight against them in an attempt to get free. He squirmed underneath the immense weight, but neither of his captors even budged. He started swearing profusely, but stopped struggling. Slowly, he lost all of his energy. Eventually, he stopped fighting altogether.

Finally, the police arrived.


	10. Two Holmes' Too Many

"I'm here for Doctor John Watson."

D.I. Lestrade looked up to meet gazes with Mycroft Holmes. He was a rather handsome fellow; dressed in a clean suit and tie. He looked familiar, but the D.I. couldn't quite place him.

"Excuse me?" Greg asked.

"I want to speak with Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied. He stared down at the detective as if expecting him to do as he asked. Greg cocked an eyebrow and sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Who was this man to think that he could boss him around like that?

"And who might you be?"

"I do believe we have met before," Mycroft said with a pleasant grin, "My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

He offered his hand to Lestrade. Lestrade stared at it for a moment, and then he remembered who he was. He stood up and firmly shook the older Holmes' hand, then asked what it was that the man was there for.

"As I already told you, I am here to speak with Doctor Watson."

Mycroft leaned his umbrella against Lestrade's desk and took a seat in the small chair provided. Lestrade sat down and folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat before speaking.

"I haven't even contacted Sherlock, yet. Nobody knows that John's here, except for me and a few others."

"And I assume that you would like for me to explain how I know?" Mycroft asked. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap.

"I am curious, yes."

"That's confidential," Mycroft said. A mischievous grin played on his lips, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Lestrade replied in a drone. He had somewhat expected that much of an answer.

"If you don't mind," Mycroft said as he stood up," I would like to see John, now. I am a very busy man, and I mustn't waste much time on this."

"Yes," Lestrade readjusted himself in his seat and leaned on one arm, "What exactly is this business that you are referring to?"

"Nothing much," Mycroft said as he grabbed his umbrella, "Just a few legal issues I wish to go over with him. If you shall call Sherlock, be a dear… and don't notify him of my being here."

"Right, then..."

Lestrade stood up and walked out of the office, leading Mycroft over to a holding room where John was currently lying on the interrogation table. The doctor was grabbing his head and grimacing.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

John looked over to find Mycroft standing in the doorway. He quickly sat up and eyeballed him carefully, unsure of what was happening. Several ideas popped into his head as the older Holmes took a seat in the chair nearby.

_Perhaps Mycroft was upset about his violent outburst and wanted to get rid of him to make sure that his brother wasn't exposed to such behavior._

_Or maybe the man that John had assaulted was a government official, and now Mycroft was there to kill John for attacking him._

_It could also be that Mycroft was waiting for Sherlock to arrive.__ He was using John's arrest as an excuse to ambush his younger brother._

"Please sit," Mycroft said, gesturing towards a chair on the other side of the room. John stared dumbly at him for a moment, and then he carefully jumped off of the table and walked over to the chair and sat down as he had been instructed.

Mycroft noticed the limp in his step.

"What do you want?" John asked.

"Over the time period that you have lived with my brother, he has become very fond of you. It seems to me as if you also feel the same way about him,"

"I'm not gay!" John barked. He slammed his fists down on the table and cursed, but Mycroft just stood there and stared at him as he waited for him to calm down.

"I wasn't insinuating that you were. I was simply stating that you and my brother have become good friends. Seeing that you are actually my brother's _only_ friend, it would be a shame for you to go to prison over something as trivial as a bar fight."

John dropped his hands into his lap and furrowed his brow. He waited for Mycroft to continue speaking. Mycroft gave him a smile, and then sat back in his seat and let out a sigh.

"I have already taken care of the report. All records of this incident have been expunged, and the man that you attacked has been paid in full for all of his medical bills."

John widened his eyes in disbelief.

"This is a one-time favor, Doctor Watson. I took care of everything so that you would be able to continue watching after Sherlock for me. I want you to know, however, that I do not condone this type of behavior on a regular basis. If something such as this happens again, I won't be there to help you."

John slowly nodded his head.

"Yes. Of course."

"Good. We have an agreement, then?"

Mycroft stood up and adjusted his outfit. John nodded his head and smiled.

"Yes. Of course."

Mycroft smiled back and walked over to him. He offered his hand, and John flinched quite noticeably. He quickly regained his composure and held out his hand for Mycroft to shake. Mycroft laid eyes on the dark bruise wrapped around the man's wrist, and he began putting all of the pieces together.

_Adamant denial of homosexuality…_

_Flinch at the thought of physical connection…_

_Bruising visible on the face and arms…_

_Violently lashing out…_

Mycroft dropped his hand, but his gaze lingered on John's wrist.

"What happened?" He asked, gesturing towards the bruise on John's arm. Although he had already deduced what had happened, he still wanted to hear John's side of the story.

"Oh," John raised his arm and looked at the purple ring around his wrist, "That must have happened at the tavern last night. Somebody grabbed me, but I didn't think it had been_ that_ hard."

John stared at the injury for a moment, something hidden behind his eyes. His vision suddenly seemed so distant, and Mycroft could tell that he had zoned out. He had ventured off into a completely different world, reliving completely different memories.

And that's when everything clicked.

There was no way that the bruise on John's arm was from the bar fight earlier. It was too ripe to be less than twelve hours old. And then there was the hostility, combined with the flinch. Put all of the symptoms together, and one would deduce that there was only one possible explanation

"Doctor Wats-" Mycroft was interrupted mid-sentence as the door to the holding room opened. Both Mycroft and John looked over to find a very disgruntled Sherlock standing in the doorway. He gave John an irritated look, and then turned his attention over to Mycroft, glaring daggers. Mycroft forged a smile for his younger brother, but he was still distracted by the thoughts that had been interrupted.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock seethed.

"I'm here to take care of the situation."

"I don't need your help," Sherlock barked.

"Last time I checked, it wasn't _you_ in the holding cell. I'm here on behalf of John."

Sherlock continued to glare at him.

"I can take care of this, Mycroft."

"I can't take care of it _legally_," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was leaning against the interrogation table with an expression of discomfort on his face. His head was hurting him due to the hangover that he was suffering from, but his arse was also beginning to ache. It wasn't yet completely healed, and his fight at the tavern hadn't helped the process. He inwardly cursed at himself for being so foolish.

"Are you alright, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm fine!" John barked. Both Mycroft and Sherlock flinched at the hostility in his voice.

"I'm sorry," John said, "I'm so sorry. That was uncalled for. It's just that I'm not feeling very well."

"Yes, well I wonder why." Sherlock sarcastically remarked. John stared at him bitterly, and Mycroft paid him an irritated glance.

"I just want to go home," John muttered, obviously depressed about something. Sherlock didn't catch his mood, and grunted irritably. Mycroft glared at him.

"If you could come with me," Lestrade piped up, "We could have this all cleaned up within the hour."

John nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. He walked past the Holmes brothers and followed the D.I. outside. Sherlock made to follow him, but Mycroft grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

"I need to speak with you," Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock jerked out of his hold and glared at him.

"Don't touch me."

"Sherlock, I'm not messing around."

"I have nothing to say to you," Sherlock replied. He began walking towards the door again, and Mycroft grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards even harder. When Sherlock jerked away a second time, he yelled at him.

"For God's sake sit down and listen to what I have to tell you!"

Sherlock just stared at him, somewhat surprised. It wasn't often that Mycroft lost control of his temper, and this was one of the rare times that Sherlock even witnessed it. He didn't know what to say, so he reluctantly sat down as Mycroft had asked him to. He folded his arms over his chest and crossed one leg over the other, waiting for his older brother to speak up. Finally, Mycroft let out an exhausted sigh and wiped the side of his face with his hand.

"I want you to stop acting like such a child. I'm trying to do you a favor here, and you push me aside as if I'm an old, unwanted toy."

"You couldn't have described it better," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"I have expunged this from Doctor Watson's records, and I even paid off the man that he assaulted, Sherlock. The least you could do is thank me."

"I have no need for your help, nor do I need your charity."

"He could have ended up in prison without my help," Mycroft replied.

"You needn't insert yourself into every little detail of my life," Sherlock hissed.

"Stop acting so _repulsively foolish_, Sherlock. I am your older brother, and I wish for _nothing_ but to help you. The fact that you wish to rid me of your life is rather depressing, but it doesn't mean that I will go away that easily. I'm a very persistent being, and I plan on inserting myself until you finally decide to grow up and let me in without my having to force it. So grow up, and _**get over yourself**_!"

Sherlock just stared at him for a while.

"Can I go now?" He asked.

Mycroft grimaced.

"Fine," He said, "Go. But I do have one more piece of advice before you leave."

Sherlock patiently waited for his advice simply because he was curious as to what the older Holmes had to say.

"You shouldn't treat a rape victim so harshly," Mycroft said at last.

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes.

"_What did you just say?"_


	11. As Time Passes By

Sherlock walked through the halls of the precinct, meandering towards Lestrade's office as he mulled over everything that he had just been told.

_"It's obvious, Sherlock. I know you don't want to believe it, but it's true."_

Sherlock shook his head and cast the thought away._ No_. John wouldn't let something like that happen to him. He just wouldn't. And even if he had, he would never keep it a secret from him.

_"He hasn't told you, because he's ashamed. It's a reasonable response."_

That's what Mycroft had said.

But that didn't make any sense. What did John have to be ashamed of? He was violated, but that didn't mean that he should feel ashamed. It wasn't his fault that he had been raped. Besides, Sherlock was his friend. Friends were supposed to confide in each other. Or so John had told him...

_"Sherlock, I realize that you don't do well with emotions, but even you should understand. I mean, how would you feel if something like this happened to you?"_

Sherlock grimaced. He couldn't even begin to imagine what John had been through. He himself was a virgin. He didn't even know what sex with a woman was like, let alone a man. He had heard that it could be quite unpleasant. Perhaps it was even more so when forced.

"I don't know, dammit." Sherlock thought aloud. A nearby officer glanced over at him, and then- upon seeing that he was mumbling to himself- quickly looked away and pretended as if he hadn't seen or heard anything.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up to find Lestrade walking towards him, John in tow.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained. He kept his eyes glued to Lestrade.

"I've taken care of everything. Your, um...brother has seen to it that John will not be charged for any criminal intent, and I have been informed that there will be no lawsuits in the foreseeable future."

Sherlock nodded curtly.

"Well then," John said with a relieved smile, "Shall we go, then?"

Sherlock finally looked over at him, surprised by his rather happy tone. Either Mycroft was wrong in his assumptions, or John was getting to be a rather good liar.

Mycroft was _never_ wrong.

Sherlock frowned at his flat mate, and John cocked his head to the side.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?"

"No," Sherlock replied, "Let's go."

He glanced around the area, and then turned to leave. John followed closely behind.

"All of the average mind power in this room is making me dizzy."

…

They arrived back at the flat in an hour. Sherlock pondered whether or not to say anything to John, and then decided that he was going to remain quiet about everything for a while. He wanted to watch John's behaviour for a few days, just to see if Mycroft had some valid points.

_"He's flinchy. He visibly tenses upon physical contact..."_

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and studied John carefully. After John left the room, he fell onto his side and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he sorted out his mind.

And it was like that for the next week.

…

_**Sunday:**_ Sherlock and John both spent the day at home, each doing their individual thing. Sherlock lay on the couch, letting out the occasional groan of boredom every now and then. John busied himself with whatever household chore he could, simply so he would have something to distract himself with. Both men went to bed around the same time.

_**Monday:**_ Sherlock left way before John had even woke up. John was unable to get ahold of him by mobile, and Mrs. Hudson had no idea where he had gone off to. John spent the day alone, catching up on his blog. Sherlock finally made an appearance at exactly 8:23 that evening. He explained that he had been examining cadavers with Molly. John was tempted to ask what exactly it was that he had been looking at dead bodies for, but refrained from doing so. Knowing Sherlock, he probably didn't want to know, anyway.

_**Tuesday:**_ Sherlock woke John up so that they could investigate a crime scene for Lestrade. John was reluctant to go with him, but tagged along just to please the consulting detective. It was meaningless, because Sherlock had the case solved in twenty minutes without any of his help. John and Sherlock left the crime scene around noon, and made their way to a restaurant a few blocks away. They had lunch together (John was surprisingly able to finish his meal this time.) and then they went to the park. They sat on a bench and chatted for a few hours-most of which consisted of Sherlock entertaining John by describing every little detail in the lives of anyone who walked by them- and then they walked home. John wrote about the unusually casual conference in his blog. Sherlock loomed over his shoulder and watched the entire process, but didn't say anything. John found his silence quite peculiar in comparison to his normal behavior.

_**Wednesday:**_ Sherlock had no cases, and his boredom drove him to assault the wall again. This time with a sledgehammer.

_**Thursday:**_ Sherlock disappeared again. John woke up around noon to find him missing. He then received a call an hour later, informing him that Sherlock had gone after a case and was in need of his help. John quickly got dressed and left to find him. The rest of the day involved him and Sherlock getting shot at as they pursued one of London's most infamous drug dealers. Nobody was mortally injured, but both men came home with a couple of new cuts and bruises to account for. nearly had a heart attack at the sight of them.

_**Friday:**_ Sherlock and John both woke up around the same time. They had breakfast together, and then they ran off to solve yet another case for D.I. Lestrade. This one wasn't nearly as violent as yesterday's drug bust, but it was just as tricky to solve. In the end, Sherlock came to the conclusion that the Husband had killed his wife for the life insurance- His gambling addiction had gotten the best of him, and he had no other choice. Lestrade thanked both men for their work, and then he left to go find his suspect. John and Sherlock went home. John wrote about the case in his blog, and then went to bed early, complaining of a headache.

It was Saturday- exactly a week after John had been arrested- when everything went awry.

The day started out as any other. John woke up first, started the kettle, and then grabbed a frying pan out of the cupboard. He walked over to the refrigerator and retrieved a few eggs. After cracking them into a bowl, he mixed them up until they were a solid yellow color, and then he poured them into the pan and watched as they slowly began to cook. He used a spatula to scramble the eggs, peppered them, and then poured them onto a plate. After turning the oven off, he turned around to make his way over to the kitchen table.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock asked. He had materialized directly in front of John, giving the doctor such a start that he nearly jumped a foot in the air.

"Don't do that," John gasped. He grasped at his chest dramatically, letting out a sigh. Sherlock's smile widened in amusement.

"Did you put on some tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. It should be done in a minute."

"Good."

Sherlock walked around him and made his way over to the refrigerator, opening it up. He grabbed an apple, and then he shut the refrigerator door and walked over to the kitchen table. He sat down across from John and took a large bite out of his apple, staring at the disheveled little man in front of him.

"Sleep well?" He asked, attempting a bit of small talk.

"I slept fine," John lied, "And you?"

"You don't look like you slept fine," Sherlock bluntly replied, "The bags under your eyes are worse than yesterday. Goodness, John, when was the last time that you actually got some sleep?"

John grimaced, staring down at his plate. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I've been odd lately. My mind doesn't seem to want to function correctly. I can't get much sleep nowadays."

"Your mind _never_ functions correctly," Sherlock teased. John gave him a blank stare.

The kettle whistled obnoxiously, and John silently thanked God for the distraction. He stood up and walked over to the stove, turning it off. He grabbed two cups out of the cupboard, and then poured them full of hot water.

"Orange spice," Sherlock said, as if he already knew what John was about to ask him. John nodded his head. Sherlock watched as he made the two cups of tea. He stood up as John handed him his cup, and then he left the room, leaving his half-eaten apple on the table to rot.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"To get on my computer," Sherlock replied. John let out a sigh and followed him into the living area. He took a seat on the sofa, and Sherlock took a seat in his usual chair.

"I think I'll go see a movie or something," John said aloud. Sherlock ignored him.

"Y'know," John continued, "Put myself out there, back in the normal world. Do some normal things. You could come, too. It wouldn't hurt, you know... To get out there and pretend like you were normal."

"Boring."

John looked over at Sherlock and smiled. His smile disappeared as soon as Sherlock slammed his computer shut and threw it across the room.

"Holy hell!" John exclaimed, dropping his tea onto the floor. He stared at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock glared over at the thin device that he had just thrown, and then he closed his eyes and made a face as if he had smelled something rotten.

"What's wrong with you?" John asked.

Sherlock let out a long, drawn-out sigh and sat back. He craned his neck back and stared up at the ceiling, holding the arms of his seat in such a strong grasp that his knuckles turned white.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

John looked over at his friend, and then down at the spilt tea on the floor. He cursed inwardly, and then he leaned over to pick up the shattered tea cup. He put the three pieces of fine china onto the coffee table, and then he stood up. After giving Sherlock a quick glance, he walked off to find a towel.

"I'll be right back," He said.

Sherlock looked over at him through the corner of his eye. As soon as John was gone, Sherlock stood up and snatched his computer off of the floor , carefully putting it on top of the coffee table.

_"I do find John's rape very coincidental, considering the emails that you have been receiving."_

_"Stop saying that!" Sherlock yelled._

_"Saying what?"_

_"Rape! Stop saying rape, dammit."_

_Mycroft stared down at his confused little brother and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, shaking his head dismally._

_"I know it must be hard for you to accept, Sherlock. John's a good friend of yours, and I understand that you don't want him to get hurt..."_

"John's more than just a friend," Sherlock said aloud to himself.

"Did you say something?" John asked. Sherlock looked over to find him standing a few feet away, holding a towel. He was giving Sherlock a weary smile, and Sherlock just didn't understand. How could he seem so happy, when- If what Mycroft said was true- he was so sad?

"No," Sherlock replied, "I was just thinking."

"Ah. Right, then."

John started cleaning up the mess that he had made, and Sherlock fell back into his chair, letting out a distressed sigh as he cupped his hand over his face.

"So," John said, "What made you want to murder the computer?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied.


	12. Nightmare's Mend

John stiffened at the sound of his name. His eyes were somewhat wider than they had been, but hadn't widened too dramatically. Undoubtedly, he was trying his best to keep as calm as he could. He wasn't doing a very good job at it, though. Sherlock was the world's only consulting detective; he noticed everything.

_I saw it, but I didn't observe it..._ Sherlock thought to himself as he began to notice the signs that he had failed to notice before.

John grabbed the arm of the chair, his grip on it so tight that his knuckles were turning white. The other hand was slightly trembling without anything for it to hold on to. John's facial expression had hardened. His legs had snapped shut...

_That was an odd reaction._

John had subconsciously snapped his legs shut upon hearing Moriarty's name, because it must have been some sort of reflex. After all, he had been raped. Keeping his legs together would undoubtedly help prevent such an attack. It would make things a bit more difficult, at least.

Sherlock shook the thought away and continued deducing the man in front of him. He repositioned himself in his chair and clapped his hands together, holding them up to his mouth as he peered at John through a very thoughtful gaze.

His eyes had glazed over. Something had driven him to the brink of tears. And, of course, his pupils had dilated as an anxiety-

"Having fun?" Asked John, his voice weak. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and dropped his hands into his lap. He looked over to find that John was now staring at the floor with a bitter smile on his face.

"Well," John said as he looked up, "You never can let things go, can you?"

He gave Sherlock an acerbic grimace and Sherlock frowned, swallowing hard. He opened his mouth to say something, but john stood up and stormed off before he had the chance to speak. Sherlock immediately jumped out of his chair and ran after the man, begging him to wait up.

"John!"

"Piss off!"

John disappeared around the corner, and continued to make his way towards the stairs.

"John, wait!"

Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. It received a frightened yelp from the shorter man, and Sherlock quickly let go of him.

"Don't touch me," John hissed, turning around to scowl at his flat look on his face was pure fear, and Sherlock was taken aback by the sight of it. Both men just stood there for a while after that, staring at each other. John diverted his gaze downward, and Sherlock took a cautious step forward. Of course, John took a step backwards .Sherlock took another step towards him, and he continued to inch back towards the wall.

"Get away from me, Sherlock."

"Just let me-"

Sherlock took a step forward and reached towards him. Finally, Sherlock had gotten a bit too close for him to be comfortable, and he didn't know what to do. He had finally hit the wall, and Sherlock just kept getting closer. His heart was beating violently against his ribcage. He felt claustrophobic all of the sudden. His breath had hitched, his stomach was churning, and he didn't know what to do. Everything was a blur. He felt like he was going to puke.

"I can't breathe," John said as he hopelessly grasped at the wall. He franticly looked around, and Sherlock told him to calm down.

"I can't breath, Sherlock!"

"Calm down! You need to calm down!"

Sherlock held his hands up defensively, and John pushed himself directly against the wall, silently wishing that it open up at swallow him. Then the most peculiar thing happened.

Sherlock hugged him.

"Calm down," Sherlock said, "I'm sorry, just calm down."

"_**Get off of me**_!" John yelled, shoving him away hard enough to make him stumble back a few feet. Sherlock tripped and fell onto his arse , grunting in pain as his tailbone made direct contact with the hardwood floor. When he looked up, he found John glaring down at him.

"Just leave me alone."

Sherlock watched as he turned to leave. He quickly jumped up and ran after him again.

"John, please-"

"Leave me alone, Sherlock!"

"John!"

Sherlock tried to grab him again- Undoubtedly an idiotic move- and this time John swung around and sent a right hook into his face, throwing him sideways onto the ground. Sherlock smacked into the hardwood floor and hit his head, which immediately sent him into a momentary daze. John walked off after that, and Sherlock was left on the ground, his head spinning as he tried to regain his balance. He slowly got onto his feet, and the world tilted sideways, sending him into the wall. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, gravity was back to normal.

_That actually hurt!_

Sherlock held his jaw and winced. There was no doubt in his mind that his face would bruise, and he felt somewhat humiliated by it.

He was startled by the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Although fully aware of the fact that John wanted nothing other than to be left alone,he dropped his hand back to his side and walked over to the nearby staircase. He climbed up the stairs two at a time, made his way over to John's bedroom, opened the door without asking for permission, and then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The lights were off, and John had his blinds down so that the room was completely engulfed by darkness.

"I told you to leave me alone," Said the dark figure sitting on the edge of the bed. Sherlock didn't say anything. In fact, he didn't really know what to do. His instincts had led him into the room, but now his intuition was gone.

"What do you want?" John barked.

"I don't really know," Sherlock amitted. He folded his hands behind his back and glanced around the room, then he added: "I'd like to know why you're acting like this."

"_Excuse me_?"

"I said-"

"I heard what you said, but I don't have to explain anything to you! Get the_ hell _out of my _room_!"

John stood up and pointed towards the bedroom door, but Sherlock didn't even flinch. He continued to just stand there, staring at the shorter man. This seemed to aggravate John even more, and he took a step towards him in an attempt to appear threatening. Sherlock noticed that he had balled one of his hands into a fist, but he ignored it. Out of all of the people on Earth, John didn't scare him- Even if he was an Afghanistan veteran. Not that John couldn't be threatening; he definitely could. But the simple fact that John was his friend sort of made the man seem unlikely to seriously injure him.

"I'm not leaving," Sherlock said.

John let out a displeased sigh and took a step back.

"Could you please just leave me alone?"

"Why won't you talk to me?" Sherlock asked.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," John replied, "You don't want to talk about normal people stuff!"

"That isn't true."

"Yes it is!"

"You didn't have to lie to me!"

A low, menacing sound came from John, and it actually sounded somewhat like a growl.

"I didn't want you to know!"

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

A low, menacing sound came from John; a growl.

"This is exactly why," John said, "Because you won't understand how to react, and you'll only make things worse. Because you're Sherlock Holmes, and you don't understand normal people issues! All you're good at is deduction, and all you care about is yourself!"

"That isn't true," Sherlock said,obviously upset by John's accusation.

"I'm sorry," John quickly replied, "I didn't mean that."

He sat down on the bed again and cupped his hands over his face, exhaling in the form of an exhausted sigh. Sherlock remained still and silent, unsure of what to do with himself. It was just as John had said; He didn't understand the situation, and he didn't know how to react. It made him furious.

"I really didn't mean that, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock lied.

"I just- I don't know," John muttered, "I can't think straight. I haven't slept for a good week now, and my thoughts are all jumbled… I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't have hugged you," Sherlock awkwardly replied. He shifted his weight onto one foot, and then the other.

"No, no…That wasn't…I mean, I shouldn't have…Look," Said John as he looked up at Sherlock's dark figure once more, "That was good… It was a nice thing to do. I was just acting like a fool, and- if it were any other instance- I would have gratefully accepted the gesture."

"Really?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course."

"Okay."

John scrubbed his face with his hands and combed his fingers through his already disheveled hair, letting out another sigh. He felt so tired.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"What do you want me to do?"

John looked up at his tall, dark outline and furrowed his brow. He mulled over the question in his head, and then he fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

"I don't know," He answered.

"Do you want to-"

"No."

"Okay."

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock walked over to the bed and sat down next to him.

"I could stay in here while you sleep," He offered. He knew that John had been having difficulties sleeping due to nightmares, and thought that perhaps his presence would help the man sleep better. If not, the least he could do was stay nearby and wake him up if need be.

"That..." John sat up and looked over at him, "You don't have to do that, Sherlock."

"I want to."

"Really?"

"No. But I should anyway, right?"

"Why?"

"Because," Sherlock said, "That's what friends do, isn't it? They put their feelings aside for the people they care about...Correct?"

John raised his brow and looked up at his friend, surprised by Sherlock's explanation. He definitely hadn't expected the man to figure out something as deep as that. Nonetheless, he nodded his head.

"Yeah."

"Well, you said you were my friend, so the only logical reason would be for me to stay."

"As long as you-"

"I don't mind," Sherlock lied.

So John went to sleep, and Sherlock stayed in the bedroom with him. Sherlock sat on the ground against the bedroom door and crossed his legs Indian style, staring at John's sleeping figure as he sorted out his mind. His mind palace had been invaded by a few unwanted thoughts, and he thought it necessary to get rid of them before the end up corrupting the entire system that he had.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to sort. John's squirming caught Sherlock's attention, and he stood up to resolve the issue. He walked over to John's bed and gently nudged the man, telling him to wake up. John rolled over and looked at him with his eyes half-closed, semi-conscious of his surroundings.

"D' ya need… need something?" John asked, groggy with sleep.

"Never mind," Sherlock replied.

He sat down and leaned against the side of the bed, sitting as he was before his thoughts had been disturbed. It was only seconds before John was able to fall asleep again, and Sherlock could hear his slow, steady breaths as he drifted off into another dream. Sherlock tried to focus on his own thoughts again, but was only able to have a solid ten minutes to himself before John started to mutter things in his sleep.

"John," Sherlock replied, "Wake up."

"Stop, please…"

Sherlock jumped up and turned around, shaking John awake. He was beginning to think that he had chewed off a bit more than he could handle. The boredom of his task at hand was overwhelming. But he didn't leave, because he knew that John needed the sleep very badly. Besides, he had already promised John that he would stay. It would be cruel for him to leave without notice.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"It's fine," Sherlock replied, "I'm not going anywhere. Go back to sleep."

John absent-mindedly nodded his head, rolling onto his side so that he had his back to Sherlock. He fell asleep within three minutes, and Sherlock was left all alone in the silent darkness of John's bedroom once more. At last, John seemed to have managed to finally find himself at peace. He hadn't moved or made any noises for a solid twenty minutes, so Sherlock decided to escape to his mind palace again. He crossed his legs Indian style and rested his hands on his knees. Once he was comfortable, he closed his eyes and escaped to the depths of his mind. He found himself at the core of his mental hard drive, and the boredom that had been closing in on him finally dissipated.

Let's see...

For some reason, the first thought that Sherlock encountered was an image of the message that he had received from Moriarty almost two weeks ago.

_If you don't satisfy my curiosity, there will be consequences._

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he made the connection.

_There will be consequences._

What was so significant about that email? Why was his subconscious luring him towards that specific message? He had received the email over a week ago, so why was he still attached to that particular memory?

_**Consequences.**_

And then everything finally was just as Mycroft had said to him while they were talking at Scotland Yard.

_"I do find John's rape very coincidental, considering the emails that you have been receiving."_

Of course! When Mycroft had first brought up the subject, Sherlock was too angry to have paid him any attention. He should have, because he would have realized what his brother was trying to tell him. The timing of John's rape, along with the message that Sherlock had received from Moriarty only a day before…They definitely coincided. Not only had Moriarty set up for John to be attacked, but he had even warned Sherlock about it.

All of the sudden, Sherlock's thoughts were disturbed by a blood-curdling scream. He was involuntarily jerked out of his subconscience, and looked over to find John contorted into an uncomfortable position on the bed. He quickly jumped up and ran over to his friend, shaking him awake.

"John!"

John swatted at him, begging him not to stop.

"John, wake up!"

Sherlock slapped him in the arm, and he finally woke up. Unexpectedly, he swung at Sherlock and yelled, caught off guard by the man looming over him in the dark. Sherlock managed to dodge his first hit, but was too slow to deflect the second assault. John grabbed him and rammed his fist into his face, cursing at him. He knew that John wasn't consciously aware of who he was hitting, but he still had to do something. He couldn't just stand there and allow John to abuse him.

Well, he_ could_...but he would much rather prefer not to.

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, "It's me! _John_!"

John made to hit him again, and Sherlock grabbed his fist, twisting his. John rolled onto his stomach in order to relieve the pain a bit, and he finally seemed to realize what was happening.

"Sherlock! Alright, alright, I'm awake!"

Sherlock let go of him and relaxed. He brought his hand up to his face and used the back of his hand to wipe his bloodied nostril.

"You hit me," Sherlock replied.

John rolled over to face him, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and then sat up in front of him. The doctor looked up at him and furrowed his brow

"Sorry."

"It's fine-"

Sherlock was unexpectedly surprised by John grabbing him. He felt the doctor's arms wrap around his waist, and then John buried his face into his abdomen and started crying. It was overwhelmingly uncomfortable for Sherlock, because he had no idea how to react.

"I can't," John sobbed into his shirt.

"Y-you can't...what?" Sherlock asked, holding his arms up awkwardly as he looked down at the small man hugging his waist.

"I can't sleep," John cried, "It just won't work. I can't sleep, but I need to sleep, and I feel like I'm dying, and I just _can't_…I _can't_, Sherlock."

It was a bit difficult for Sherlock to make out the words, but he somewhat understood. He stood there for a moment, and then he reached behind his back and removed John's arms from around his waist. He took a step back, told John to lay down, and then- after John had done as he had told him- he sat down next to the man and leaned against the wood of the bed.

"Sleep," He demanded.

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Now do as I said."

John stared at him for a moment, unsure of whether or not he should listen, and then he grabbed Sherlock's hand and closed his eyes. Sherlock tensed, caught off guard by the gesture. He almost pulled away from John's grasp, but decided against it. After all, he didn't really mind. The connection made him feel somewhat...

He couldn't really explain his reaction, but he liked it.

And it seemed to help John, too, because the man slept soundly for the rest of the night.


	13. Not an Ordinary Murder

It was around six in the evening when Sherlock couldn't handle it anymore. He was sitting there, muddling through various memories, when he finally came to a dead end. There was nothing else for him to think about, and he had no more distractions. The boredom came once more, and he was left with no other choice but to sleep. He reluctantly gave in, laying down next to John. He crawled under the blanket- careful as to not wake his friend up- and closed his eyes. He was sound asleep in twenty minutes…

He woke up the next day, at exactly 7:48 in the morning. John had an arm wrapped around his waist, and a leg wrapped around his legs. His head was nestled into the back of Sherlock's neck, and his snores provided warm breath against the taller man's skin.

"What in the world..."

Sherlock peeled open his eyes and craned his head as far back as possible, glancing back at the sleeping man who was wrapped around him like an infantile primate. He looked down at the appendages hugging his body, and then let out a soft chuckle and dropped his head back onto the bed. He laid there for another ten minutes, and then it seemed as if John was also beginning to wake up. The shorter man moved around a bit, and then he reflexively pulled away from Sherlock and sat up. Sherlock looked back at him and smiled.

"Good morning," He said.

"Sorry," John replied with a sheepish smile. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, and Sherlock waved it off.

"You were sleeping," Sherlock said, "It's fine. "

John just stared at him for a moment, and then he asked him how long he had been awake.

"About ten minutes," Sherlock replied. John nodded his head, and then stood up and walked off to retrieve a fresh pair of clothes.

"I'm in need of a shower," He said.

"Alright."

John stared at him for another long moment, as if expecting him to say something, and then he walked over to the bedroom door and opened it. He stepped outside and closed the door, then he reopened the door and peered into the room, looking over at Sherlock.

"I appreciate you staying in here," He said, "It was...I mean…Thanks."

He left without another word, and Sherlock was left in the bedroom all alone.

...

After both men had taken showers and dressed for the day, they convened in the living area. Sherlock sat down in his usual chair and unfolded a newspaper, reading one of the articles on the second page. John sat down at the couch with a cup of tea in his hand.

"Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond. He had already fallen into one of his trances where he became completely ignorant to his surroundings, and didn't even hear John say anything.

"Sherlock," John reiterated, this time a bit louder. Still, Sherlock failed to respond. Finally, John reached over and grabbed the newspaper that he was holding, jerking it out of his grasp. Sherlock look up at him and frowned.

"What was that for?" He asked.

"I said your name twice," John replied.

"What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap, watching John expectantly.

"About Moriarty," John said.

"Actually," Sherlock interrupted, "I wanted to talk to you about that, as well."

"Okay, great. But please let me speak."

Sherlock nodded, gesturing for John to continue with what he was saying. John opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by the sound of Sherlock's mobile ringing. Sherlock glanced over at the small cellular device buzzing in the table next to him, but ignored it. He looked back at John, and the doctor frowned.

"Go ahead," John sighed.

Sherlock reached over and snatched his mobile, answering it.

"Holmes speaking."

John could hear the faint voice of a man on the other end of the call, but he couldn't make out what the man was saying.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

There was a pause as Sherlock listened to his caller, and then Sherlock told him to wait a moment. He glanced over at John, and then continued to speak.

"Of course."

The man said something, and John was relatively sure that he heard his name mentioned. Sherlock gave him another glance.

"Yes, he will."

"What?" John asked.

"We'll be right there."

Sherlock hung up, and then he carefully tucked his mobile into the front pocket of his pants.

"Who was it?" John asked.

"Lestrade," Said Sherlock as he stood up and readjusted his clothes. John waited for him to continue, but he didn't say anything else. Sherlock grabbed his scarf, and then walked over to the door and opened it, climbing downstairs.

"Hey," John said, "Wait up!"

He quickly retrieved his coat, and then he ran after Sherlock.

...

When the two men arrived at the crime scene, the first thing they noticed was the front of the house, which appeared to be painted in blood.

"Redrum," Sherlock read aloud.

"Huh?"

John looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock pointed towards the large, bloody letters painted on the siding, repeating what he had just said.

"It's murder, only backwards."

"Of course. But why is that significant?"

Sherlock stared up at the peculiar word and smiled, folding his hands behind his back.

"I've got no idea," He said, "This is going to be fun."

Sherlock continued to walk towards the building, and John followed him. As soon as they came up to the front door, they were stopped by one of the officers guarding the premises.

"What do you want, freak?"

Sherlock looked over at the woman who had approached him and frowned.

"I've been asked here by Lestrade."

"Yeah? Prove it."

"I don't need to prove anything to you, Donovan. Now let me through."

"I don't think so. It's a bloody mess in there. Wouldn't want the likes of you contaminating evidence."

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh and glanced around.

"C'mon," John said, "Can you please just let us in?"

Donovan looked over at the doctor, and then back at Sherlock.

"What's that?" She asked, staring at a bruise on the taller man's face.

"What's_ what_?"

"Get yourself hit, did you? Finally manage to deduce a bit too much about somebody?"

Sherlock glared daggers at her, and she smirked.

"Yes," John piped up, "Me."

Donovan looked over at the shorter man and raised her brow, clearly intrigued by this new information. She opened her mouth to say something, but the door behind her swung open, and Lestrade appeared in the doorway. He ran right into her, and she fell into Sherlock. Sherlock -Of course- pushed her off of himself, and she fell onto the ground.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't see you there," Lestrade said. He looked over at her and offered a hand, but she just frowned at him. She stood up and dusted herself off, and then she left. Not without first making sure that she gave Sherlock a dirty look, of course.

"Well, then."

Lestrade watched her leave, and then he turned his attention back to the two men in front of him.

"Sherlock," He said. He gave Sherlock a nod of his head, and then he turned to John.

"Doctor Watson. Nice of you both to make it. How's the cat?"

John frowned, giving Sherlock an irritated glance out of the corner of his eye.

"Well," Sherlock said, "That's not of much importance right now. Show me the body. "

"Right," Said Lestrade, "This way."

He gestured for John and Sherlock to follow him, and then he turned around and opened the door. He stopped before stepping inside of the household, and then turned around and held out two pairs of what looked like light blue shower caps.

"Might want to put these on," He said, "It's a mess in here."

Sherlock and John covered their shoes with them, and then they proceeded into the household. John gasped at the ghastly sight of the scene before him, but Sherlock simply stood there and stared at the mangled body a few feet away.

The consulting detective laughed, receiving bewildered looks from both his companion and the D.I.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer," Sherlock replied.

"What?" Lestrade asked, "How do you know?"

"Look at the body. The neck was cut very cleanly, suggesting that whoever did this was experienced."

Sherlock walked over to the corpse and knelt next to it. He quickly put a latex glove on, and then he used his gloved hand to turn the head to the side.

"What do you think, John?"

John walked over and knelt down next to him. Sherlock handed him a pair of gloves, and he put them on. He then proceeded to examine the body, giving Sherlock and the nearby detective his opinions. Sherlock stood up and watched him.

"This was most likely done with a scalpel of some sort," John said, " The cut is too clean and thin to have been from something like a kitchen knife."

"Good," Sherlock said.

John stood up and looked over at him.

"But how does that make this a serial killing?"

"Because," Sherlock replied, "It's a clean cut, and there isn't much evidence to go off of. It suggests that our killer knew what he was doing…"

Sherlock trailed off, and John squat down to further examine the corpse. Lestrade walked over to watch the shorter man work.

"He's been dead approximately twelve hours," Said John, " That means...Wait. That means that the building went unnoticed for twelve hours?"

"Or the killer waited to present his art," Sherlock interrupted. He looked over at Lestrade and stared at him for a moment.

"What?" The D.I asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze.

"Have you by any chance spoken to the family who actually lives here?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"This man doesn't live here. Where is the family who actually _does_?"

"What in God's name are you- What do you mean he doesn't live here?"

"I mean he doesn't live here! Look around, Lestrade, this home obviously belongs to a single mother raising three children. This man doesn't live here, nor has he ever resided within this house."

Lestrade looked around the room, and then down at the corpse a few feet away.

"And how do you know that?" He asked.

"For one," Sherlock said, "There are pictures of three different children sitting up on the mantle. There's a picture on the wall to the right, and in it is a middle- aged women with two children and a baby. Next to that photograph is another family portrait, this one with a man and only two children. I'm assuming that the woman who lives here was at one time married. Her husband died after she had her third child."

"And those," Sherlock added, "Are her husband's ashes."

He pointed towards a vase-like container on a shelf. It was engraved with a man's name. Next two it was a pair of wedding rings- a man's and a woman's.

"So, where are the woman and her three children?" John asked.

Lestrade looked over to find the doctor staring up at them.

"And how cliché it is," Sherlock said, "The message on the front of the house."

"It's odd, isn't it?" John asked.

"Quite odd, indeed…"

Lestrade stared at John for a moment, and then over at Sherlock, who seemed to be in his own world.

"Well," He said, "I'll look into it. You have ten minutes to check out the house, and then I want you out of here."

Lestrade walked off without another word, and Sherlock turned his attention back to John. He gestured for him to follow, and then walked off to examine the rest of the house. John wandered around, taking notes of anything that he found even a bit out of place. After seven minutes of investigating, the two men reconvened in the front room of the house, discussing their theories.

"Maybe the killer was trying to get a message across to the family who does live here," John offered.

"It's possible," Sherlock replied, "But I doubt it. Let's go. I need to find Lestrade."

Sherlock walked off without saying anything else. John followed him, and they made their way outside, where it had started raining. The precipitation had already began to wash away the horrendous red smudges on the house, and the entire forensics team was franticly working on gathering every single bit of evidence possible before it was washed away as well.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called upon noticing them. Sherlock walked over to him.

"Have you found anything?" The consulting detective asked.

"Turns out the family who lives here is on vacation."

"Of course. So the location was utilized simply because of convenience."

"That's what it looks like. I had some of my men look up our vic, and it appears that he's a surgeon."

"Great!" Sherlock said.

"Excuse me?" Lestrade asked.

"This isn't a serial killer! It's one of his colleagues," Sherlock said, "Look at their files, Lestrade. He's had much practice, but not by killing people; by surgery... He's had plenty of practice, and he knew exactly how to clean up. Of course, he missed something."

Lestrade just stared at him.

"There's a long red hair next to the body," Sherlock said, "But our single mother with three children had dark black hair. Either our murderer is a man with long red hair, or a woman. The 'Redrum' has nothing to do with anything! Oh, our killer is brilliant!"

Sherlock walked around him and made his way over to the street, flagging down a taxi.

"Wait," Lestrade called, "What's our motive here?"

"Our killer had a scalpel, and he wanted to use it!"

"I thought you said it was a woman!"

"I said it could be! But not many women wear a size twelve shoe!"

Sherlock jumped into his taxi and slammed the door, leaving Lestrade utterly confused.

"Hey!" John yelled, "Sherlock, wait for-"

He tried to run after the taxi, but it was already at the end of the street before he could even finish his sentence.

"That is so...Dammit!"

John glared down the street, and then he let out a sigh and scratched the back of his head.

"Need a ride?" Lestrade offered.

The doctor looked over at Lestrade and gave him a weary smile.

"That would be_ so_ much appreciated."


	14. Revelation

Sherlock sat forward and looked into the rearview mirror of the taxi, meeting gazes with the taxi driver for a second. He then sat back and looked out of the window next to him, wondering whether or not John would find a ride back to the flat on his own.

"Where to?" Asked the driver.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock asked.

The driver let out a low, maniacal laugh. He gave Sherlock another glance, and then returned his attention to the road n front of them. His smile never left.

"Well, Sherlock... Isn't it obvious by now?"

Sherlock glared at his reflection and crossed his arms over his chest.

"So this was you?"

"Well, not exactly." Was Moriarty's response.

"Who is he?"

"Who?"

"The killer. Who is he?"

"Nobody, really. Just a crazy old bastard who likes the sight of blood."

"And I suppose surgery wasn't enough for him?"

"This one," Moriarty replied, "He's not very mentally stable. I didn't have much fun playing with him. He lacks...well, he lacks originality, really."

"Why sponsor him, then?"

Moriarty parked the vehicle in an empty lot and turned around in his seat, giving Sherlock a wide, evil grin.

"I was bored," He said, "Besides, it was just another case for you to solve. You should be thanking me."

"Right," Sherlock replied, "But you still haven't answered my question."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow curiously.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock asked in reply.

"You know the answer," Moriarty said as he turned around in his seat and put the car back into gear, "I want you to stop ignoring me."

" I thought you wanted me to leave you alone. Now you want me to pay attention to you?"

"I'm moody."

"And if I fail to comply?"

There was a short silence, and then Moriarty glanced up at Sherlock's reflection in the rearview mirror, a wide smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm sure you've figured out what happened to poor little Johnny boy by now…"

Sherlock looked up at him and glared.

"If you hurt him..." He growled. The pure hostility in his voice was somewhat surprising to his driver.

"You know, Sherlock... I thought you were incapable of having feelings for people... I must have been wrong. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually liked the poor bloke."

"Leave him out of this."

"Oh, he was sweet. Really cute it was, his trying to escape."

"What are you going on about?" Sherlock asked.

"Johnny boy, _obviously_. You know, when that brother of yours picked you up, poor little Doctor Watson went back to the flat to retrieve something. I was there to greet him."

"You're lying."

"No, Sherlock. _I'm really not_..."

Without thinking, Sherlock lunged forward and wrapped his arm around Moriarty's neck. He squeezed as hard as he could, and Moriarty was forced let go of the steering wheel. The car spun out of control, and Sherlock was sent flying sideways. He flew sideways and smacked into the interior of the side door. Moriarty quickly took hold of the steering wheel and steadied the vehicle, then he brought it to an abrupt stop. Sherlock jumped out of the car and grabbed the front door, pulling it open. Moriarty just looked at him and laughed. When Sherlock made to grab him, he pushed on the gas as hard as he could. The cab sped down the street, and then turned and disappeared. Sherlock tried to run after it, but he couldn't keep up.

"Dammit!"

He stopped in the middle of the street and caught his breath, looking around to find that his spectacle had attracted quite a bit of unwanted attention. Everyone nearby was staring at him like he was a lunatic.

...

When Sherlock finally arrived back at the flat, John was already there. He was sitting in the kitchen, eating a bowl of chicken soup. When Sherlock walked in, he simply gave him a dirty look and continued to sip on a spoonful of broth.

"Glad you made it home," Sherlock said.

"No thanks to you," John replied with his mouth half-full. Sherlock looked over at him and shrugged.

"I had some business that I had to attend to."

"Oh? Yes, and what type of business did you have to attend to that you just up and left like that? We work_ together_, in case you don't remember."

"We don't work together," Sherlock said, "I just bring you along because people give me peculiar looks if I walk around talking to a skull. I'd end up in the nut house."

"We work together," John corrected.

"How do you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock asked. He sat down across from John and propped his head up with his forearm.

"Because," Replied John, "If I wasn't there to shoot the man during our first case together, you would have committed suicide. If I hadn't been with you during the case we did about the Chinese smugglers, you never would have found the wall of code, and the truth would have remained a mystery forever. And foremost, If I wasn't around after you had faked your death- _if I didn't continue to believe in you with every inch of my being_- then we wouldn't be where we are today, Sherlock. We. Us. You _**and**_ me."

"You make a good case," Sherlock replied.

"And?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and then he sat up in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a deep sigh.

"I've come to the conclusion that, well... Perhaps you could be considered as my partner."

"Partner? No. You tell people that, and they'll _definitely_ start talking."

They both laughed, and John stood up to put his bowl in the sink. He poured the remaining contents of his meal down the drain, tossed his fork aside, rinsed his bowl, and then dried his hands on his trousers. When he turned around, Sherlock was giving him a very thoughtful look.

"What're you giving me that look for?" He asked.

"You just never cease to amuse me," Sherlock replied with a smile. John cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

"What ever do you mean?" He asked.

"Just...you. I don't know. You're a funny little man."

"_A funny little man_?"

John sat down again, this time folding his hands together and using them to prop his head up. Sherlock's expression turned serious, and he sat forward in his seat, leaning on the table with his elbows.

"John, I have some things I need to ask you."

"What about?"

"There are some things that I need to clarify about Moriarty."

"Jesus, Sherlock. Here we are, having a laugh, and then you up and change the subject entirely."

"Yes. But I need to know-"

"You don't _need_ to know anything. I've already gone over this with you, and I don't want to talk about it."

"John."

"What?"

Sherlock just gave him this _You-and-I-both-know-how-this-is going-to-end_ look.

"Look," Said John, "I'd talk to you about it, but I really don't want you to have to deal with those kind of details. I've dealt with..."

He paused for a moment and then said:

"Rape victims."

It was obviously hard for him to say it.

"I've dealt with rape victims before," He continued, "It's difficult for the people close to them to hear about what happened. I really don't want to put that on you."

"I understand."

"Really?" John asked, somewhat hopeful that his friend would drop the subject entirely.

"I'd still prefer that you discussed this with me."

"Why?"

John was obviously against the idea.

"Because I've... I've taken some time to do a bit of research."

"You...You what?"

"I've researched the topic."

"What did you go and do that for?"

"Because I'm worried about you, and I want to make sure that you're okay."

John just stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. An involuntary smile played on his lips, and Sherlock gave him a curious look.

"What?" Asked the confused younger man.

"That's...that's very thoughtful of you, Sherlock. It really is."

"Yes. Well, anyway...As I was saying, I'd prefer that you talk to me about what Moriarty did to you."

"Wait. Hold on...I never told you that Moriarty was the one who-"

"I assumed that he did."

"Why would you assume that, when he's told you that he doesn't like to get his hands dirty?"

"I don't know. Stop changing the subject."

"Oh, yes, _I'm _the one changing the subject."

"You are now."

"Well I didn't want to-"

"_John_!"

John immediately stopped talking, and Sherlock glared at him. The two men just stood there, staring at each other in silence for a while, and then Sherlock sat back in his chair again and cleared his throat.

"According to what I've read, it's unhealthy for rape victims not to talk about what happened."

John let out a sigh and scratched his stubbled jaw as he mulled over what Sherlock had just said.

"That's what I've got a therapist for," John said.

"Yes. Well, we both know you won't go to her about this, so why don't you just make this easier on us both and allow me to discuss the matter with you?"

John grimaced. He knew that Sherlock would remain persistent, so he finally just gave in.

"Fine."

Sherlock stared at him with a blank expression, expecting him to continue. When John failed to speak up, he decided to take things into his own hands. Of course, this wasn't a very smart idea, because Sherlock had a knack for being rather blunt about things.

"So," He said, "Did it hurt?"

"_Bloody hell_, _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock gave him an apologetic look.

"Not good?" He asked.

"Not good. No. _Not at all_."

"Right. I do apologize. Here," Sherlock put his hand flat on the table and drummed his fingers against the wood, "You can just talk to me about whatever you think is significant, and I'll just listen."

"But I'm not really sure what you'd call... Y'know...significant."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Just tell me what happened."

"What do you mean? Like from the beginning?"

"Yes. Start from the beginning."

"Okay..."

John took a deep breath, and then he slowly began to explain what had happened. He started from where Moriarty had first approached him in the living area on that fateful morning a week ago, and then he divulged into how he had been subdued; even how he had been forced into intercourse. He hadn't originally planned on going into much detail when he had first started to talk, but once he started to finally admit everything that he had gone through, the words just started pouring out of him. His emotions took over, and he ended up sharing every single overwhelmingly painful memory of what had happened to him. He couldn't help it; sharing his pain with somebody else lifted so much weight off of his shoulders.

By the time that John was finished talking, the poor doctor was in tears. He was bent over with his hands cupped over his face, sobbing. It was the most depressing thing that Sherlock had ever witnessed, and it made him sad just to watch. It was weird, really. Sherlock felt something he had never felt before. It was a burning anger that coursed through him, and yet it carried such an overwhelming sadness.

Sherlock reached up and touched his cheek, pulling his hand away to examine the dampness that had somehow formed there.

Was he crying?

He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve so that John wouldn't notice, and then he walked over to the man and awkwardly placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. (Once more a gesture that he had learned from Mycroft.) John looked up at him and tried to give him a smile in thanks for his support, but he just ended up choking out another pathetic sob.

"I'm... I am so sorry," Sherlock said. It was the first time in a very, very long time that he had actually meant it.

John jumped out of his seat, spun around, and then grabbed him. Sherlock- completely unaware of what was happening- froze in place. But then John wrapped his arms around him, and he realized that he was being hugged. He cautiously embraced the shorter man with his long arms, and John buried his face into his chest. The doctor just stood there and cried. He let out every wail of sadness that he had been holding in, drenching Sherlock's shirt in tears. And Sherlock just stood there, holding him in his arms, as he tried to fight back tears of his own.


	15. This is Good

Sherlock held the shorter man tightly in his arms, burying his face in the greying blonde hair on top of John's head. He took a sharp intake of breath and let it out of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to push away the overwhelming sadness that was intruding his mind and telling his eyes to form tears. He didn't like it; didn't like the feeling of foreign emotions taking him by surprise like that. It made him feel vulnerable.

And the side effects were unpleasant. The knot in his stomach, the tightness in his throat that felt like somebody was squeezing his air pipe...

"Sherlock," John said as he pulled away to look up at the taller man.

"Yes?"

Sherlock quickly collected himself, making sure that his expression wasn't readable. John hugged him again, this time even tighter than before.

"Don't leave me," He muttered into his friend's chest.

Sherlock smiled weakly.

"I won't," He replied.

John let go and looked up at him again. He gave Sherlock an odd look, and then he looked down at his feet and fidgeted nervously. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed his mouth and shook the thought away. Sherlock furrowed his brow, studying him curiously.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him and smiled sadly, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Before he had a chance to answer, Sherlock reached up and used his thumb to wipe the lonely tear away. John smiled, genuinely moved by the simplicity of the gesture. Unexpectedly, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him close, leaned down, and kissed him directly on his lips. John, caught off guard by the sudden connection, reflexively pushed the taller man away. Sherlock stumbled back a few feet, and then regained his composure and started apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock immediately replied, "I shouldn't have done that. That was inappropriate. I'm sorry, I'm-"

John abruptly grabbed him and yanked him forward, kissing him back. Sherlock held his hands up and awkwardly stood there for a moment, simply John released him, he dropped his hands back to his sides and just stared at the man in front of him. John smiled, curious as to why his friend looked so baffled.

"What?"

"I thought you weren't gay," Sherlock replied.

John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning.

" I'm not. It was just... I don't know. I'm not in my right mind. Y'know... violated, confused..."

"Yes," Said Sherlock, which didn't really make much sense.

"Besides," John said, "You told me you weren't interested."

Sherlock awkwardly shifted his weight and folded his hands behind his back.

"I'm not. I just thought it would comfort you. You know me- I'm not very good at these types of things."

"That's a terrible excuse," John argued. Sherlock burned red with embarrassment.

"Not much better than yours," Sherlock retorted, " What a load of-"

"You made a move first!"

"Yes, well you came back at me like a wild animal."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

"Oh, how would you know," John waved him off, "virgin."

Sherlock glared at him, and then his lips curled upward into a mischievous grin. He walked over to John and leaned over him. John leaned back onto the counter, holding the granite counter top to keep himself balanced. He stared up at Sherlock and swallowed hard, nervously anticipating him to do something.

"What are you-"

"I'm going to kiss you," Sherlock bluntly replied, warning John of his upcoming actions. John stared at him for a second, and then hesitantly nodded his head, giving him permission to proceed. Sherlock grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head back a bit, kissing him once more. He lingered there for a moment, and then he pulled away and studied John's face.

"I'm not gay," John persisted.

"Neither am I," Sherlock lied. He smiled down at the man beneath him, and John involuntarily smiled back; the sight of such a carefree Sherlock lifting his spirits. Both men started laughing, and then they kissed again. This time, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and leaned into him. Sherlock lifted him up and sat him down on the counter. He wrapped his arms around John's waist, and then continued to kiss him. Slowly, the kiss turned into full-blown snogging. John's tongue wormed into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock did his best to cooperate with it to his best ability.

After several minutes, he replaced his lips on John's neck and started nipping at the soft flesh there, receiving a muffled gasp from his friend.

"Jesus," John said. He buried his face into Sherlock's shoulder and clenched his teeth, trying his best to refrain from making any of the unpleasant noises that were bubbling up in the back of his throat. Sherlock smiled against his neck.

"You're so gay," Sherlock teased. John chuckled distractedly, enjoying Sherlock's playfulness. He sat still as Sherlock raised his head and brushed his lips against his ear.

"I'm glad," Sherlock gently bit the man's earlobe and tugged on it with his teeth.

"Stop that," John giggled.

"Why? Sherlock asked. He did it again, and this time John jerked his head away. He looked over at Sherlock and raised a eyebrow curiously.

"How did we get to this?" He asked. Sherlock thought about it, and then he shrugged.

"You offended me, so I wanted to prove to you that I'm not completely ignorant in the subject."

"Ah. That sounds like you," John replied, "You stubborn child."

"Do you want me to stop?"

There was a pause, and then John shook his head.

"Of course not."

Sherlock smiled, kissed him again, and then grabbed him by his hair. He gently tugged his head back, and then planted a kiss on his Adam's apple. John brought one hand up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock kept leaving kisses all over his neck, sucking and nibbling at him. It was all fine until Sherlock decided to get a bit more daring.

John grabbed his hand, which was slowly inching up his thigh. Sherlock absently swatted his hand away.

"No,"John said. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, so he said a bit louder: "No, Sherlock."

He grabbed Sherlock's arm and firmly held it in place, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared back at him, but didn't move. John's expression had suddenly filled with fear, and he knew that he would have to choose his next actions and words very carefully.

"I just want to-"

"I can't," John said, shaking his head. He furrowed his brow and diverted his attention to the wall a few feet behind Sherlock.

"John."

"No," John replied.

"John, look at me."

John hesitantly returned his attention back to Sherlock, who was now giving him a wary smile. Sherlock removed his hands from him and used them to lean on the counter, each hand placed flat against the granite on either side of John.

"I won't hurt you," Sherlock said.

"I know. I just... I can't do that, Sherlock."

"You don't have to," Said Sherlock. He leaned forward, kissed John one more time, and then stood straight and readjusted his outfit. John stood up and apologized.

"Don't," Sherlock said.

"Do what?"

"Don't apologize."

"I just...I-"

"You didn't do anything," Sherlock said. John looked down at the floor and muttered something, but Sherlock couldn't quite make out the words. Very carefully, Sherlock reached up and grabbed the shorter man's chin, bringing his head up so that he could see his face. John looked up at him.

"You aren't going to start crying again, are you?" Sherlock asked with a lopsided smile. John's lip twitched upward.

"No."

"Good," Sherlock said, " I don't like it when you cry."

John lips involuntarily curled up into a smile, and Sherlock stared down at him with a grin from ear to ear.

"This is good," Sherlock said. John nodded in agreement. 


	16. Unresolved

Sherlock sat with John in the living room, and they discussed a few details that Sherlock had insisted on. After that, they just sat there in awkward silence for a while, neither sure of what to say. John kept zoning out, and Sherlock would just stare at him; study him. Memories of their earlier… _whatever that was_ kept surfacing. Sherlock couldn't get the image of John sitting on the counter out of his head. And the memory kept leading him towards other, much more profane thoughts about the man.

It soon came time to go to bed, and John walked off without saying anything. Sherlock sat on the couch, watching him disappear around a corner, and then he stood up and followed. He followed John upstairs, led him to his bedroom, and then wished him a good night.

"I need some fresh air," Sherlock said, "I shouldn't be long."

"Good night," John had dismally replied.

With a nod of the head, Sherlock made his leave. He gently shut the door behind him, and then grabbed his coat and made his way out of the household without another word. The first thought that came to mind was:

_Wow! It is cold out here._

The second thought that came to mind was: _What if John needs me?_

Sherlock shook the thought away and began walking down the barren sidewalk, heading in the same direction of the tavern that John had been arrested in a week ago. He even passed by the building, giving it a glance as he did. He contemplated going inside, just to see what it was like. Maybe he could have a few drinks...

No, that would be stupid. Alcohol kills brain cells. Besides, John had probably thought the exact same thing before entering the tavern. Well, it was more likely that he had gone into the bar to delibrately drown his sorrows, but Sherlock would much rather think that he had been smarter than that. Sherlock walked past the tavern and continued walking down the road until he met with an intersection. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye, and then he was surprised by a hand coming towards him. He ducked out of the way, spun around, and then elbowed the owner of the appendage square in the face. The man who had grabbed for him cupped a hand over his nose, which was now bleeding profusely, and Sherlock didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man by his throat, pushed him up against a nearby brick wall, and then used his free hand to punch him in the gut. The stranger doubled over and collapsed onto the ground, groaning.

"Who are you?" Sherlock barked.

When the man looked up at him, the moon provided just enough light for Sherlock to make out his features. The consulting detective's eyes widened in shock. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words formed.

"You bumbling idiot..."

Mycroft stood up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using the piece of cloth to hold against his nose until the blood coagulated. Sherlock just stood there, staring at him with a look of bewilderment. He glanced around, and was surprised to find that nobody had approached them. It appeared as if Mycroft were alone...

"Well," Mycroft said, "Are you just going to stare at me like an idiot, or are you going to apologize?"

"Sorry," Sherlock absent-mindedly replied. Mycroft raised his brow, surprised that he had actually responded. Of course, Sherlock wasn't focused on his brother at the moment. He was too busy looking around for the dark vehicle that usually followed him around like a shadow. Mycroft would never leave without it. His guards were near him 24/7.

But where were they?

"I came alone," Mycroft replied, as if he could hear Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock stopped looking around for the usual black Mercedes, turning his attention to the man in front of him. The realization of the damage that he had caused to his brother's face finally seemed to sink in, and a pleased smile played on his lips. Mycroft frowned.

"You really shouldn't jump out at me like that," Said Sherlock.

"I've been following you since you left the flat," Mycroft replied, " You're getting slow. Besides, I had just planned on tapping you on the shoulder. You impulsive little..."

Mycroft trailed off, holding his handkerchief out so that he could look at the amount of blood that had stained it already. His nose had stopped bleeding, so he used the piece of cloth to wipe off whatever blood was still on his face, and then he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

"Either way," Sherlock said, " I'm trained to attack whenever I think that I am in immediate danger."

"And a hand reaching towards you-"

"Is a hand coming in for the kill. If I hadn't reacted as such, I could have been pulled into an alley and beaten to death for my wallet."

"You couldn't check before deciding to assault me?"

"How was I supposed to know it was you? It's so dark out- Wait, why are you out this late, anyway?"

Mycroft adjusted his coat, glancing around to make sure that nobody was within hearing distance.

"I need to speak with you," He said.

"And it's so important and secretive that you couldn't just abduct me like usual?"

"Not exactly," Mycroft said as he shook his head, " But I would rather remain confidential in the matters. I don't necessarily want any of my men overhearing what I have to tell you. Trust me, it's better for the both of us."

"I'm sure it is," Said Sherlock with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, "It is. So I suggest that we go back to your flat and discuss it. Unless, of course, you don't trust that such a place would be good enough."

"Good enough?"

"I need to speak to you," Mycroft said, "In private."

"Oh. Well, John's sleeping."

"Good. Then let's discuss it there."

Mycroft turned and began walking back to the flat without saying anything else to Sherlock. Sherlock followed. They made it back to the flat within ten minutes, and Sherlock pulled out a key, unlocking the front door. He walked into the building and made his way up the stairs, stopping at the door so that he could unlock it, as well. Mycroft looked at him curiously, but didn't say anything.

"Now what is it that you want?" Sherlock asked as they walked into the living area. Mycroft removed his coat and draped it on the back of the sofa, watching Sherlock carefully.

"He's sleeping?" Mycroft asked, glancing up at the ceiling. Sherlock sat down in his chair and let out a sigh.

"Yes."

Mycroft sat down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, "What is so important that you can't even trust your usual steroid-filled oaf?"

"Unfortunately," Mycroft began, "There's been a breach in my security.

"Are we speaking about the bruise that you failed to disguise the other day?"

"Yes." Mycroft looked over at his younger brother and furrowed his brow, "I'm under the impression that one of my personnel is being paid to look the other way while certain acts are performed."

"And I suppose that you're here because you want my help."

"Not exactly."

"Hm." Sherlock looked clearly intrigued. If his brother didn't need his help, and he wasn't desperately trying to figure out what Sherlock was up to… why was he even there?

"Two days after I was assaulted in my own building, there was a car blown up in front of this building. That was the day that John was raped."

"You think it was done to distract people."

"Yes. I think that whoever did it was aiming for a distraction."

"Nobody would have paid mind to any disturbances in the nearby building. They'd be too focused on the vehicle that had spontaneously combusted a few yards away."

"Exactly," Mycroft continued, "And I think that it was set up by the same person who sent someone after me."

"Why?"

"I have my people respond to _anything _unusual that occurs around here. Ever since the supposed gas leak downstairs, I have surveillance set up to make sure that you and Doctor Watson are safe. Unfortunately, nobody responded to the car explosion. I've questioned a few different men, but all of them have told me that they didn't even receive notice."

"So either someone was paid to make sure there wasn't an alert, or someone was paid to turn the other way while someone else made sure their wasn't an alert."

"Yes."

"Or…" Sherlock started. Mycroft looked at him and frowned.

"Or what?" Asked the older brother.

"Or _all _of your personnel have been paid off to play along."

Mycroft's expression hardened.

"Yes," He said, "I've thought of that."

"It's quite possible," Sherlock said, "We know that Moriarty has that kind of funding."

"Unfortunately. But we also know that there is someone capable of finding out which is the truth."

He looked over at Sherlock and grinned, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock just stared at him and frowned.

"Oh, c'mon Sherlock."

"I don't have time to waste with your petty issues."

"You do to."

"I'm quite busy, Mycroft. Do it yourself. You and I both know that we have an almost equivalent IQ. You may not be as smart as I am, but you'll suffice."

"Quit bantering like an imbecile. You _will_ do this for me."

"I just told you, I'm too busy."

"Not if John's involved, as well."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly closed his mouth again and stared at Mycroft, frozen in place.

"Why is John involved?" Sherlock asked.

"Because somebody broke into my office this morning and tried to commandeer a file of mine."

"What was inside of that file?" Sherlock asked.

"It was information on Doctor Watson. It held background information,individual studies,details on his latest arrest, an old book that I once stole from his therapist, a few notes…"

"Why would you even have something like that?" Sherlock asked, giving the older Holmes a quizzical look. Mycroft grinned enigmaticly.

"I feel inclined to keep tabs on the people close to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat forward in his seat and scowled at his older brother, fairly displeased with the answer.

"Where is this file now?" Sherlock asked.

"My first instinct was to burn it, of course. I don't want anybody getting ahold of such information."

"So you burned it?"

"Yes," Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a memory stick, holding it up for Sherlock to see.

"You burned it onto a flashdrive!"

"Well, I literally threw the initial file into a fire, but not before I copied it onto a flashdrive."

"You're unbelievable," Sherlock groaned.

"This is the sole remaining information on Doctor Watson, "Mycroft said, "And I'm giving it to you to do with it as you please."

Sherlock reached over to grab it, but Mycroft pulled it back.

"Only if you'll take the case," Mycroft added.

"Give it to me," Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft held the small informational device against his chest and stared at Sherlock, waiting for a response.

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted, "I'll do it."

Mycroft grinned victoriously, handing the flashdrive to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched it out of his hand and glared at him through squinted eyes. He let out a defeated sigh, and then stood up and walked off. He came back five minutes later.

"Now that that's taken care of…" He said.

"What did you do?" Mycroft asked.

"I melted it."

"You what?"

"I melted it on the stove."

"Right, then."

Sherlock sat down in the same spot he had been sitting before.

"So," He said, "That was the last remaining information that you have on him?"

Mycroft nodded.

"I've even gone through with making sure that all of the crucial information was deleted from history completely."

"Good. So there is nowhere else- absolutely nowhere else on this planet- where someone could get ahold of that information."

"Not unless it was Doctor Watson himself."

"Good. Don't ever do something that stupid, again."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock sat forward in his seat.

"Well," Said the younger, "Now's as good a time as ever. Tell me of all the boring details about your stupid case."

"I will," Mycroft said, "Once you fix your posture and begin acting like an adult."

**END**

_Alright. This has been an amazing journey, guys. I loved writing this, and I'm so happy that all of you enjoyed it. Special thanks to all of the people who reviewed and followed during the process- it couldn't have been done without you. Now, for a small shoutout to the anon who left me one of the longest, most amusing and insightful reviews that I have ever read:_

_**THE KETTLE ANON…**_

_**That review was fantastic. I'm glad that you gave it to me, I'll keep all of the information in mind. It was great, really. And I must say, It amused me to an extent, as well. I LOVE YOU. Okay, that's going a bit too far. But I really did appreciate you putting an effort into giving me such a brilliant explanation of things.**_

_Now, goodbye my friends. I do plan on continuing the story, but I will do so with a sequel. Not sure when I will begin posting it, so make sure to check in every once in a while if you are interested._


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